Fathers and Sons Felonious and Otherwise
by OkapiSeeks
Summary: Shawn and the gang unknowingly cross the wrong man and suffer some serious consequences. While Shawn's reputation and several SBPD cases are put in jeopardy, all of their lives end up on the line. NO SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Fathers and Sons Felonious and Otherwise

**Chapter 1**

"Fathers and sons. I tell ya, Bob, it all comes down to fathers and sons. This business of ours turns on relationships, and the most important one is always the one between fathers and sons."

"You're right about that, Morton. You're absolutely right," said Bob.

"Any organization, from a hole-in-the-wall diner to an empire, can be built up or torn down purely by the relationship of a father and son."

"That's what history shows us."

"So, now I find myself in good company, bemoaning the son I was given who hasn't learned a damned thing from me, who has ridden my coattails and ascended to heights beyond his own abilities, who is on the verge of making everything I've worked for in my life come tumbling down. What am I supposed to do about that, Bob? Why at my age do I still have to clean up his messes?" growled the old man as he shifted slightly in his seat, grunting faintly. The light glowed off of his thick glasses for a moment making him look like some kind of demented owl.

Bob fidgeted, feeling the heat of the old man's building anger as surely as an oncoming freight train. He'd learned long ago in the old man's employ to get out of the way at times like this. "I guess it's the curse of parenthood, Morton. You're never not their parent."

"Very true, Bob. Wise words," said the old man as he took another slug of scotch. He puffed on his Cuban cigar, savoring the smoke as he held it in his mouth for a moment before blowing it gently out again. "To tell you the truth, I'm not as terribly put out by all of this as I probably should be. Honestly, I'm looking forward to getting back in the game, at least for this one thing, for this one last hurrah."

Bob sighed inwardly and relaxed a little bit. "You're a natural, Morton. You'll show these kids how it's done."

The old man flashed a feral grin, tobacco and coffee-stained teeth gleaming almost gold in the lamplight. "Hell yeah. They think their gadgets and electronic gizmos let them get things done better. All they do is mesmerize them and make them miss the obvious. I'll get a network chugging along like the old days, busting heads and getting the job done right. The kids won't know where to look."

Bob smiled and took a swig of his own scotch, relaxing more fully now that the old man was on a roll and his attention was focused on a goal. The old man was always easier to deal with when he had a direction. He was an insufferable ass when he was aimless and bored.

"So we start at the beginning. The root of the problem, here, is that Maxwell never learned subtlety. Actually, the real problem is that he's a lazy dumbass. Subtlety is an art practiced with intelligence and patience. My son didn't inherit those qualities. I blame his mother."

Bob cleared his throat and shifted again in his seat. He was happy that Gladys had passed or there would've been an eruption at the old man's words. His wife had been a firebrand to rival his steely ruthlessness. Their arguments had always been epic, not uncommonly involving broken crystal or vases or whatever else was handy. Since her death two years earlier, the old man had seemed to be shrinking and fading, as if her presence had kept the spark within him lit. Now, there was a hint of that old spark again, although it was only the cold and calculating fervor of the old man. At least he was interested again in something. Bob decided that when this business was finished he'd find another venture for the old man, criminal or otherwise, to keep this newly ignited fire going. He'd also missed the heat of purpose, and he felt the stirrings of anticipation as he awaited the old man's plans.

"You never send goons after a witness. You send messages. I've told Maxwell this a thousand times, but did he listen? Obviously not. He got impatient and cocky and he screwed up," said the old man through another puff of cigar smoke. "I know you already know this, Bob, but I'm thinking out loud here."

Bob nodded and made sure he looked extra-attentive, accustomed to the old man's lectures and tendency to think out-loud.

"It's time Maxwell learned the proper method of taking the heart out of a witness. And for this situation, I'd like to hit the cops investigating him. After all, what better way is there to intimidate an innocent than to show their protectors aren't even safe? And what better way to get back at the cops for messing with my family?"

Bob returned the feral grin that had spread across the old man's face in anticipation of doing damage to the hated police. He even felt the stirrings of excitement at the idea within himself. The cops had certainly given them enough grief through the years. It was always fun to mess them up in return when the opportunity arose.

"So you need to get me information on the cops investigating my son. Better yet, get someone inside. Talk to Ferdinand. I believe he has a cousin in town who has experience," said the old man with the happy grin still making his leathery face glow. "And find Sinclair."

"Sinclair?" asked Bob with surprise. "He's been retired for years."

"He's here. Find him and get him on board. Sell it as a last hurrah, if you have to. And pay whatever he wants. For this one, it's worth the cost. What am I saving my money for anyway, right? I can't show it off in this dump, other than with these tiny treats," he said waving the cigar and swishing the expensive alcohol in its glass. "If I've got to keep myself under wraps, I might as well have fun doing it."

"Yes, sir," said Bob with a tone of awe laced with fear. The operation had suddenly taken a darker turn than he'd expected. When he'd said "hit the cops" he'd assumed it was more along the lines of a shot across the bow rather than a real "hit." But if he was bringing in Sinclair, that meant the old man was serious this time. Deadly serious.

Sensing his unease, the old man sat up straighter and glowered at Bob. "This is my son we're talking about, Bob. This is my flesh and blood. This is ME they're messing with!" he bellowed. "They're going to learn."

Bob sat up straighter as well and set his glass down on the table. "Of course, Morton. Of course."

The old man started to cough but tried to mask it by clearing his throat as he sat back again, quickly deflating from his burst of ire. He reached for the oxygen mask sitting on the table at his elbow and put it to his face for a few breaths before tossing it onto the side table again. "Get to work, now."

Bob stood and nodded. "I'll have the information by the morning, and I'll talk to Ferdinand."

"Good. Don't worry about Sinclair. I'll call him myself."

"Okay, Morton," said Bob with ill-concealed relief. He hadn't been looking forward to calling the stone killer. The last time he'd talked to the man he'd felt like cold slugs were crawling on his spine. That had been over a decade ago, but he could still remember the feeling. "I'll come by in the morning. Good night, Morton."

"Good night, Bob. We're going to have some fun with this, you hear?"

"Absolutely," said Bob with a wave as he left the apartment.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before opening the file in front of him for the millionth time. His eyes were crossing reading through it again and again, but he wanted to be damned sure everything was in perfect order. Presenting felony evidence against a well-known defense attorney wasn't a common occurrence, even when said attorney had been suspected of being crooked for years. Usually, attorneys were way too smart to be caught the way they'd been able to nail Maxwell Francis. He'd been bold and reckless and had been charged with witness-intimidation because he seemingly hadn't even tried to cover his connection to the deed. They had the testimony of a fresh-faced college intern who had been directed by Francis to deliver payment to the men who'd eventually been charged in the assault on the witness. The fact that he'd allowed an intern to deliver the money directly to the men was mind-boggling, but there it was, undeniable, in black and white on the report. He'd taken the intern's statement himself like he'd been accepting a Christmas gift in July. It was thrilling but almost disconcerting as well. He couldn't quite shake the niggling sense of unease he had about the case. He'd never liked trusting in things that seemed to come too easily.

"Detective, I need that file. Now, please," said Chief Vick from her office door.

Lassiter sat up, blinking at the change of focus from the close-up file to Karen Vick across the bullpen. "Yes, Chief," he said as he stood up and walked the file over to her.

She smiled as she took the file from his hand. "The case is good, Carlton. Stop worrying about it."

He gave her a self-conscious smirk in return and nodded. "I know. I just wanted to be sure."

"Of course. While you're here, how's the Hammond case coming along?"

"Well, Spencer's vibes led us to interview a few more of the residents at the Shady Glen home and I think we have enough to get a warrant to search Hammond's office," said Lassiter.

"What he means to say, Chief, is that we have the guy nailed to the wall like one of those creepy singing fake fish things," said Shawn as he and Gus strolled up to them.

Lassiter's brow scrunched up and Vick raised her eyebrows as she turned to face Shawn. "That solid, huh?"

Shawn struck an odd pose and said, "Would I lie to you?" Then he performed a shimmy from side to side. "Would I lie to you, honey?"

Gus's expression turned horrified as he punched Shawn in the arm. Lassiter's expression darkened. The chief's eyebrows went up even further. "Did you just call me honey?"

Shawn rubbed his arm with a scathing glance at Gus and then said, "No, sorry, Chief. I just heard that song in the car and it's really sticking in my head. It's like some kind of gooey thought glue that won't..."

"Mr. Spencer," growled Vick.

Shawn cleared his throat. "This is a cut and dry case. The guy's skimming money from these old people under the guise of obtaining more life insurance for them on the cheap. Seriously, he was driving a Ford Escort last month and now he's driving a brand new BMW. How much clearer does it have to be?"

"Significantly, in order to get a warrant," said Vick with a warning tone. "Maybe he's been saving for years to get this car and finally got it. Do you have other evidence?" She turned her look on Lassiter who nodded.

"Yes, Chief," he said with a glance at Shawn. "Based on Spencer's, uh, vision, we have interviewed several of the residents who have mentioned that Mr. Hammond has been trying to talk them into additional life insurance. Also, Spencer here found letterhead with a fake life insurance company name. It was a form letter welcoming someone who had supposedly been newly insured."

"Found it where?"

Shawn spoke up, "It was blowing around on the grass outside of the nursing home."

The chief turned her gaze on Shawn again. "Really?" she asked with healthy skepticism.

"Would I lie...OW!" said Shawn as Gus punched him again. "Yes, Chief, really. I saw the paper on the ground and picked it up like the good environmentalist that I am."

"Can you put the two together? Just because he may be advising them to purchase more insurance doesn't mean he's the one scamming them. Do you have evidence directly connecting him to this fake insurance company?" pressed Vick, looking from Shawn to Lassiter and back.

Shawn held his hands out to his sides in a helpless gesture. "Fingerprints? I'm telling you, it's him."

Lassiter cleared his throat. "We'll find the connection, Chief," said Lassiter, feeling the agitation rippling off of Shawn in waves. For as intelligent as he could be, sometimes the psychic could be frustratingly dense, especially about the necessities of proper procedure.

"Do that," said Vick. "Then we'll talk about a warrant."

Shawn grimaced and Lassiter sighed as Chief Vick went back into her office. "Man, that blows," whined Shawn. "I wanted to get the check for that case too."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "It's called real police work, Spencer. Deal with it. Cases aren't won on vibes, they're won on hard evidence." He turned and stalked back to his desk.

"Your head is hard enough evidence, Lassie," groused Shawn. "I'm not sure how much harder it can get."

"Shawn, just drop it. We've got him like you said, it'll just take a little more time for us to get paid is all," said Gus, sensing the rise in tension in the room and wanting to head out to answer his growling stomach instead. "Let's go grab some lunch."

"Okay, man," said Shawn, then he turned back to Lassiter's desk as he walked backwards. "Lassie, we're gonna get some food now. When we come back we'll see if you need our help to finish off this case or if you might miraculously be doing some work on your own."

Lassiter just waved a dismissive hand, not in the mood to engage the perpetual irritant. The funny thing was, he felt just as certain about Hammond's guilt as Shawn did, but he understood the need for sufficient, solid evidence before being able to get a warrant and make the arrest, and he was confident that they'd get the evidence in due time. He'd been a cop long enough that he'd come to terms with the requirements of the legal process and the patience needed to endure it, unlike Spencer, apparently. He was always vaguely shocked at the psychic's attitude. He'd grown up with a cop in the house, Lassiter figured he should be familiar enough with the procedures. But, maybe that's why Spencer had never tried to become a cop himself. _And thank Sweet Lady Justice for that_. Lassiter shivered at the thought of Spencer as one of his officers, or worse yet, a detective. Although, maybe then he'd have a better measure of control over the flighty pest.

Lassiter shrugged and rubbed at his stress-tight shoulders as he settled in at his desk, shaking off thoughts of Spencer-as-detective and the lingering unease of the Francis case. He tried to shift his focus fully to the Hammond case instead. All they needed was a stronger connection to Hammond, and Juliet was quite possibly getting that even as he sat down and flipped open the file. She'd been at the nursing home all morning working on the case while he'd finished up the Francis report. With any luck, she'd have the hard evidence the chief had asked for and Spencer wouldn't have anything to gripe about later. He squinted at the Hammond file, then rubbed his eyes, realizing that he needed a caffeine boost before digging in. He stood to head for the coffee area when he almost ran into a custodian passing his desk.

"Sorry, detective," said the man, ducking his head as he danced out of Lassiter's way.

"No problem," said Lassiter as he pulled up to avoid a collision. He flicked his gaze over the man, but he was already retreating down the steps to the interrogation and file areas, carrying a broom and dustpan. Lassiter didn't recognize him and wondered at that for a moment. He was familiar with everyone who worked at the station, regardless of shift times, all the way down to the custodial staff. This man wasn't known to him, but Lassiter just chalked it up to a temporary replacement. Someone was taking a day off, probably. A small corner of his mind filed the information away to ask the duty officer about later as his gaze re-focused on the desired coffee pots.

**OoOoOoO**

Juliet sighed as she trudged up the station steps two hours later carrying the bag of food for her and her partner's very delayed lunch. She was frustrated that she hadn't been able to find a greater connection between Hammond and the fake insurance company. And she'd only been able to interview one other resident of the Shady Glen home because any others who had been contacted by Hammond, the home's account director, were either on a trip to the mall or were otherwise unavailable. She knew Lassiter and Shawn would be frustrated by the lack of progress. She caught herself and smiled wryly at the thought of being reluctant to report to Shawn, too. He was a part of their team, though, so it really was becoming almost second-nature to include him in her thoughts on cases like this.

"Oh, thank god," gasped Lassiter as she approached his desk with the food. "I think I just passed out from hunger a second ago."

Juliet smiled and shook her head as she dropped the bag onto his desk. "Just don't eat it all. I'll be right back," she said as she headed to her locker. She needed to make a locker-stop and a bathroom-stop before she could settle in for her dinner and her disappointing report. As she reached the bottom of the steps she saw a figure moving through the back hallway and out the back door of the station. She couldn't tell who it was, but he had on a custodian's uniform and was holding a big paper bag, like a grocery bag. She blinked and watched for a moment as the man went out the exit. Custodians didn't usually leave work at this hour, but maybe he was just taking a dinner break outside. She shrugged and went about her business.

**OoOoOoO**

Ferdinand closed the door on his cousin and walked into the tiny living room holding the big paper bag. He held it out to Bob.

"Now, see, Bob. That's how it's done. You'll tell your cousin how happy we are, Ferdinand," said the old man. He took one more puff of oxygen before reaching out for some of the copies Bob had extracted from the bag.

"Yes, sir," said Ferdinand as he left the room to finish making dinner in the tiny kitchen.

"Shady Glen," said Bob, scanning the papers. "We almost got you a place there, didn't we Morton?"

The old man snorted. "That dump is for vegetables. They stack 'em 2 or 3 deep in a single room. Imagine! This place is bad enough," he griped as he squinted at a page.

Bob nodded. They'd had to settle the old man into a senior residence a few months after Gladys passed. It was better cover for him, with Ferdinand as his live-in nurse, a duty he was qualified for as well as the myriad other talents he possessed. They had easier access to care, if Morton suffered an episode, and security was more lax than at a normal hospital. Even after all of these years, they still had to be careful to hide Morton's identity. The authorities and other families would all still love a crack at the old man, but he was going to show he had some swing left of his own.

"This guy here, Spencer, is listed as a psychic consultant. They actually employ a psychic? What kind of moronic police force do they have in this town? If I'd known this I mighta tried putting together something in this shithole city years ago!" crowed the old man.

Bob stood up and walked over to peer at the page the man was perusing. "Yeah, this is the same crew that put together the case on Maxwell. The head detective, his partner, and a pair of consultants. I didn't realize they're psychics. That's a nutty group right there."

The old man snorted again. "This just gets better and better," he mumbled. "So you got anything on this case of theirs?"

Bob grabbed a sheet he'd been studying. "Yeah, we can set something up. They're stuck looking for evidence on this dumb slob. Easy enough to bait the hook."

"Spectacular. You set the bait, I'll contact the hook," sneered the old man. "Give me that phone." He grabbed a ratty old address book from the side table and took a few puffs of oxygen to calm the excited wheezing that had suddenly flared up. He flipped the address book open to the S's and skimmed down the page to the single-named entry: Sinclair.

Bob smiled at the old man's enthusiasm and sat down to pen a tantalizing letter for the psychic. Things were starting to get fun, now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Gus glanced over at Shawn who had been squeezing a rubber stress-toy viciously for the past half hour while yammering about the pros and cons of various 80's television shows.

"Please don't break that, Shawn. It'll leave sand all over the place," said Gus.

Shawn grimaced and tossed the toy on his desk, rubbing absently at his now-sore hand and forearm. "It's not sand. It's some kind of magic grain from China with healing properties."

Gus rolled his eyes. "That guy was lying, Shawn. It's just sand. Or maybe tiny plastic pellets."

"Gus, you're such a wet noodle."

"I think you mean wet blanket."

"Whatever it is, you're all wet," said Shawn with a grin at his own joke.

Gus sighed and shook his head. "Why are you so anxious anyway? What's bugging you?"

"Who me? I told you, I am bug-free. I have a note from the vet and everything," said Shawn as he stood up and started pacing the office.

"Shawn, seriously, what's wrong?"

Shawn sighed and stopped pacing to look out the office window, hands stuffed in his pockets. "I don't know, man. I just really want to get this case wrapped up. I'm just...frustrated, I guess."

"Well, chill out. You're going to solve it. We're not in a race or anything," said Gus as he flipped through a few more of his sales files. Shawn grunted and Gus looked up at him, suddenly suspicious. "We aren't in a race, are we?"

Shawn shrugged with his back still to Gus.

"Did you make a bet or something?"

Shawn turned around and waved a hand at Gus. "No, of course not! Would I do that? Wait, don't answer," he said at Gus's look. "I just, I mean I kind of thought that...that last case with the lawyer, and then this one..."

"Shawn..."

"What I'm saying is, we solved that Francis case," said Shawn before pausing again.

"Because Charlotte came to us with her testimony," added Gus.

Charlotte Rey, the intern for Maxwell Francis had sought out Shawn and Gus with the information about paying off the witness-intimidating thugs. She'd chosen to go to them first because she was frightened of going straight to the police. They had convinced her to give her statement to Lassie and Jules, with just a bit of Shawn's showboating first to set the scene, because it had been clear from the outset what a big case this could be for them.

"Yes, but she came to us, so we solved it," said Shawn stubbornly. "And now we're so close on this Hammond case. And both of them without having to even think about asking my dad for help." Shawn said the last part more quietly, letting the sentence degenerate into a mumble which Gus was still able to hear.

Gus's brow cleared as he realized the problem. "You're scared that we'll have to get your dad to help with the Hammond case?"

"Gus! I'm not 'scared' of anything like that," huffed Shawn indignantly. Then he cleared his throat and turned back to the window. "But, I was kind of hoping to have two big cases get solved really quickly and without having to ask my dad anything other than when dinner was going to be ready." Shawn had degenerated into the mumble again.

"I understand now," said Gus gently. "Don't worry about it, Shawn. You're going to solve the Hammond case. And really, if you have to ask your dad for help, is that so bad? Isn't it more important to solve the case than to worry about how it's solved or who ultimately solves it?"

Shawn turned to give Gus an incredulous look. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not," said Gus haughtily. "You're just like Lassie, getting all worked up over how a case is solved instead of just being happy that it gets solved. You just both come at it from different angles."

Shawn gasped with horror. "Take that back!" he hissed, pointing an accusing finger at Gus. "Blastocyst!"

Gus blinked. "I think you mean 'blasphemy.'"

"Whatever, dude, just take that back right now! Don't ever say I'm like Lassie!"

Gus set his jaw and glared at Shawn defiantly. Shawn picked up the stress-toy from his desk and cocked his arm as if to throw it. They stared at each other for a few moments. When Gus showed no signs of wavering, Shawn picked up a pair of scissors and held the point up to the rubbery skin of the toy, poised to pierce it.

"Fine," said Gus finally, lowering his gaze and frowning. "You're not like Lassie."

Shawn released a breath and tossed the toy and scissors back on the desk. "Thank you."

"Other than your both being pig-headed, stubborn, overbearing..." mumbled Gus under his breath as he shuffled his files again.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Shawn stood for another few moments, looking lost. "If I could just get one more piece of evidence. Maybe we could break into the guy's office."

"That's illegal, Shawn."

Shawn scoffed. "We've done it before..."

"Yes, but it's still illegal. And if we get caught, the whole case could get thrown out, AND we could be taken to jail instead."

"Details..."

Gus dropped his work files on the desk and stood up in surrender. "Let's just go get some dinner."

Shawn shook his head with frustration, then his shoulders dropped and he said, "Okay. Maybe some food will help."

"Food always helps," said Gus.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn pushed through the door of the Psych office and stalked over to his desk, saying over his shoulder, "I'm sure it's here, Gus. Where else could it be? You're going to owe me churros for a month..." He started shuffling the clutter on his desk, searching for the phone that he'd been certain was in his pocket when they'd gone out to dinner. "Well, crap."

Gus strolled in with a smug expression. "Churros for a month. Starting tomorrow. Do you need a ride home now, or are you going to ride the death-cycle?"

Shawn sighed and flopped into his chair. "I'll take my bike. I want to do some more work," he mumbled dejectedly.

"Just don't stay too long," said Gus, expression turning from victorious to resigned. "You're worrying about this too much. Maybe a good night's sleep will help you feel better."

Shawn nodded and waved as Gus left. He put his elbows on the desk and rubbed at his face, releasing a growl of frustration. First the roadblocks of the Hammond case, and now he'd managed to lose his phone yet again. Life was being rather bitchy to him lately. He felt like going home and watching a marathon of _The Incredible Hulk_, but his stubbornness about the case won out, at least for a while. Bill Bixby and Lou Ferrigno would still be there waiting to welcome him home later. He spent an hour doing internet research on the fake insurance company Hammond was using. There really wasn't any information online, though, which made sense, he supposed. It wasn't like most, or any, of the home's residents would be doing a lot of online checking on his dummy company. He wished, not for the first time, that he knew how to hack into computer files. Hammond most likely had something incriminating in his emails or bank records. But then that just ran him back into the wall of needing a search warrant. He sighed and decided it was time for a beer and a dose of cheesy superhero television.

Something bumped against the main door of the office. Shawn froze for a moment, listening. Had that been a knock? Or was it just a bird or something banging into the door? It was late and dark and he was pretty sure birds didn't bang into doors or windows in the middle of the night. Unless they were vampire birds. His heart sped up. It was kinda late for anyone to be knocking too. He moved around his desk and walked over to the door, peering out the windows but detecting no movement. He put his ear to the door and listened, wondering what kind of noises vampire birds made. Luckily, there were no noises at all, and he finally shook himself and opened the door. Something flopped onto his shoe and he jumped back, releasing a high-pitched squeak before focusing on the manilla envelope on the floor.

"Gah! What the hell?" he asked out loud as he focused on the package. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling slightly embarrassed even though no one had been around to witness his reaction. He picked up the envelope and turned it over, but there was nothing written on it. Brow furrowed, he opened it and pulled out three sheets of paper, one of which was a handwritten note. The other two were some kind of financial record. He scanned them and realized with a cold spike in his belly that they were Hammond's bank records. His head whipped up and he stepped to the door, leaning out to peer up and down the sidewalk, but no one was around. "Dude," he hissed as he stepped back inside and shut the door. He read the note, which simply said "A little bird told me you needed this information." That's really odd, he thought, wondering at the note and the euphemism. He scanned the other papers as he walked back to his desk, noting the name of the fake insurance company listed with payments to Hammond under the category of "consulting fees." There was another bank's name recorded as a transfer source. So Hammond had the fake company set up with one bank, and when he scammed some money he just transferred the money from the fake company's bank to his own.

The phone rang, making him jump again. He stared at it for a couple of rings, feeling that this couldn't be a coincidence, then he walked to his desk and sat down, reaching for the handset.

"Hello?"

"Is this the psychic?" asked a whispering voice.

"Um, yes. I charge $3.50 a minute. Do you have a question about love or money?"

"Funny guy," said the whisper, not sounding amused. "Did you get my envelope?"

"Can you describe the envelope in question?" asked Shawn, feeling irritated by the cloak and dagger game. But he was also perversely feeling a glimmer of excitement at the prospect of the covert information being true. This could be just the break he needed to finish the case, creepy and questionable as it was.

"Cram it, punk," hissed the voice. "You needed information, and there it is. Now, I've got one more thing to help you."

"Would that be your name and interest in this case?"

"No. It would be the fact that Hammond keeps all of his 'special files,' if you catch my drift, in his car. And his car is going to be parked on Carson Street tomorrow afternoon." There was a click when the caller hung up.

Shawn's brow furrowed as he sat back and stared at the phone. Who the hell was that? One of Hammond's enemies who'd gotten wind of their investigation? It was possible, but he hadn't gotten the sense that Hammond was the type to have made enemies other than the people he'd defrauded who didn't know he was the one doing it. Or maybe someone else had figured out he was the one? A relative of one of the old people he'd stolen money from? Shawn put the phone down and sighed. If a relative had found out, wouldn't they have just gone to the police? Calling him was essentially doing just that, except that he provided more fanfare and entertainment. Maybe it was someone who didn't want to be on the police records, or who maybe just didn't like cops. He could see where a son or daughter who had a bad history with the law would prefer a more roundabout way to incriminate the guy. It seemed too easy. Way too easy. But his desire to see Hammond get his due and to get the case done sooner rather than later started to win out.

He was torn, so he did what he always did when feeling indecisive. He picked up the phone and dialed Gus's number. It took five rings before his friend picked up. "Gus! Dude you'll never believe what just happened," said Shawn.

"Shawn? You'd better be lying half dead in a ditch calling me right now," mumbled Gus.

"Were you sleeping?" asked Shawn, knowing full well he had been. Sometimes, when he'd started to annoy someone, it just made him feel like escalating, seeing how far he could push the person. He figured this was probably some kind of character flaw, but he didn't really care that much. "Wake up, man! Some mysterious dude just called me on the phone after dropping off an envelope at the Psych office."

"What are you talking about? You're still at the office?"

"Yeah, and you'll never guess what's in the envelope."

"Plane tickets to I-Don't-Give-A-Crap?"

"No! Thank goodness. I've heard that place really stinks. Anyway, it's Hammond's bank records, and they show that he's in charge of the funds for the fake insurance company!" crowed Shawn.

"What?" gasped Gus, finally sounding awake. "Who gave you those?"

"I don't know, the weird whispery guy on the phone, I guess." 

"What? The guy called, too?"

"Yes, catch up already. He called to tell me that Hammond keeps his files in his car. And he told me where the car's going be parked tomorrow."

"That's so...weird," breathed Gus. "I mean, really, really weird. Who would do that?"

"I don't know. It does seem strange. Is it too easy?"

"It's pretty damned easy, Shawn."

"But, maybe it's just a relative of one of the old farts who doesn't want to deal with the police."

"How would a relative just happen to have Hammond's bank records lying around?"

"Hmm, good point. Maybe it's a relative who's a burglar?"

"Wow, that would be a great source to have, wouldn't it?" said Gus, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Dammit, Gus, I don't know. What should I do? The evidence is right here! It's in my hand as we speak! Do I just ignore it?"

Gus sighed and was silent for a few moments. "I don't know Shawn," he said, still clearly disturbed.

"We've known all along that Hammond is guilty. Now I have the solid proof. I can't just let this go."

"You didn't get the proof legally, Shawn."

"Legal schmegal, what the hell am I supposed to do when it shows up on my doorstep like a cute fluffy little lost kitten, send it back out into the cold?"

"Probably, yes."

"I didn't steal this, Gus, so I didn't get this illegally. And anyway, maybe we don't even have to use this specific piece of paper when we talk to Lassie and Jules. Maybe I can just use the information to tip the balance so we can get a real warrant."

Gus was silent for a few moments. "Now, that might just work. If you don't show them that paper...can you use something on the paper to have a vision about?"

Shawn scanned the record again. "What about just using the bank's name? I can have a vision of the bank and the cops can call and ask if they have an account with the insurance company. If they're dealing with a fake company, Jules and Lassie can get a warrant for those records. The records will trace back to Hammond and boom! Case closed!" said Shawn feeling suddenly excited. He almost stood up and did his standard bouncing on his toes at the thought of another case solved, but he was too tired and Gus wasn't actually in the room with him anyway. "How's that sound?"

Gus yawned audibly and said, "Sounds like I can go back to sleep now. It's still kind of freaky, though. I hope whoever gave you that doesn't make a habit of 'helping' us anymore."

"Yeah, I guess," said Shawn with a grimace. "Get back to sleep, buddy. I'll see you tomorrow at the station."

**OoOoOoO**

"Jesus Christ, Sinclair! When did you become a dirty hippy?" groused the old man.

"Mortie, good to see you too, you dried-up goat. And you're about thirty-some years out of date there. Hippies are just lame old farts now."

"Ah, hell," laughed the old man as he stood up and shook the hand of his guest.

"Besides," said Sinclair with a toothy grin. "I think this is more of a nouveau homeless look. It's all the rage among us desert rats."

"As long as you can still get the job done, I don't give a crap what you look like," said Morton as he sat down and took a puff of oxygen.

"Oh, I still got it, Mortie. Don't worry about that. I'm all set for tomorrow."

The old man barked triumphantly. "Hot damn! It's so nice to work with a real professional again."

Sinclair grinned wider and said, "Yeah, I gotta say this job's got my blood up like it hasn't been in a long while. Thanks for bringing me in. I was getting shriveled and crusty in my little patch of sand."

"Well, here you go, man. Have a drink and a smoke and let's toast to getting things done right."

The two men lit their cigars and took long swigs of their expensive scotch.

"So, it'll be sometime in the afternoon?" asked the old man after a few contented moments.

Sinclair nodded, eyes glinting with pleasure. "You'll know when it happens, Mortie," he said as he took a puff of his cigar and blew a smoke ring into the air. "I think I'm going to find a front-row seat myself. I almost forgot how much fun I have blowing people up."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Lassiter hung up the phone harder than necessary. He took a deep breath and let it out with the hint of a growl as he sat back in his chair.

"No luck, I take it?" asked Juliet as she sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk from her partner.

"No. And for the record, I hate talking to smarmy bank officials," said Lassiter petulantly.

Juliet rolled her eyes. "Believe me I know," she said. "Since you only had to talk to a handful while I called the rest of the banks in town..."

"I was doing other work," said Lassiter defensively.

She snorted and shook her head. "Well, I didn't have any luck either. If he registered the insurance company with a bank, he did it somewhere other than Santa Barbara."

Lassiter nodded and leaned back further in his chair with his hands on his head, staring at the ceiling as if it could give him some kind of answer. He heard Juliet shift in her seat and draw in a sharp breath a split second before his equilibrium was jolted by the feeling of falling backwards. He flailed and lurched forward, a small yell of surprise escaping him. Spencer snickered. Lassiter sat up and turned to see the snarky psychic grinning at him from behind his chair, where he'd obviously just yanked on it.

"Dammit, Spencer," growled Lassiter as he rose to his feet.

Shawn jumped away from the detective and moved around the desk to stand next to Juliet. Gus was hanging out nearby, trying to stay out of the way in case Lassiter was able to actually reach his friend.

"Whoa, there, detective! I come bearing gifts of a psychic nature. So you'd better not look a gift psychic in the mouth...or something like that."

"I'll pop a gift psychic in the mouth..." began Lassiter menacingly.

"What do you have Shawn?" asked Juliet with resignation, standing up to insert herself between the two men even though the desk was already separating them. She was never totally sure that Lassiter wouldn't launch himself over the desk someday.

"Fair Juliet," said Shawn dramatically. "I was rudely awakened this morning by a vision of bread."

Juliet's brow furrowed as Lassiter slumped back into his chair. "Spencer, will you just get to the point."

Shawn put his hand to his head in his standard pose and squeezed his eyes shut. "Frolicking loaves of bread!" he yelled. "Playing in a field!"

"What the hell kind of a vision is that?" asked Juliet.

Shawn lowered his hand. "Oh, and the grass was made of money. So I'm pretty sure that means it's a vision of a bank."

"I'm pretty sure that means you were smoking something illegal last night," mumbled Lassiter.

"I would do no such thing! My body is a temple, oh grouchy one," said Shawn indignantly.

"Is this a vision of Hammond's bank, then?" asked Juliet hopefully.

"Perhaps," said Shawn. "This vision does have the same vibilacious feel to it as the others I've had concerning this case."

Lassiter just rolled his eyes.

"What does it mean, though?" wondered Juliet as she sat down and looked at her partner. "Loaves of bread in a field."

"Bread could be a bakery, or a baker," said Lassiter.

Simultaneously, Juliet and Lassiter pointed at each other and said, "Bakersfield!"

Shawn leaned in close to Gus who had moved to stand beside him. "They can be kinda creepy sometimes," he said. Gus just nodded.

"Alright, O'Hara, start calling banks in Bakersfield," said Lassiter as he stood up again, excitement gleaming in his eyes.

Juliet's brow furrowed. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, I'll help, uh, after I tell the chief what we've got," he said evasively. Juliet flashed him a scathing look.

"No need to call all of the banks," said Shawn. "Just pull up a list and I'll be able to tell which one it is."

"Thanks, Shawn," said Juliet with a smile as she rose and went to her computer to retrieve the information.

Lassiter went to the chief's office to give her an update. When they both came out a few minutes later, Juliet was on the phone with the Bakersfield Trust & Loan, a look of relieved excitement on her face. She nodded at Lassiter and Chief Vick as she finished up the call.

"That's it," she said when she hung up. "The fake insurance company has an account with them, and Hammond has transferred money from that account to his personal bank here in Santa Barbara."

Chief Vick smiled. "Excellent work, detectives, Mr. Spencer. It's time to get that warrant."

"Oooh!" gasped Shawn as he winced and put his hand to his temple. "I'm getting another vision, of a car...it's...it's Hammond's car!" He opened his eye to make sure everyone was watching. "It's in a carton..."

"Shawn," said Gus.

"No, not carton...Carson! It's on Carson Street," gasped Shawn, lowering his hand and blinking at his audience.

Lassiter was scowling. "So?"

"The spirits are obviously telling us that we should start by searching the car," snipped Shawn.

"Alright everyone. Let's just get this done. Detective Lassiter, go ahead and start with the car after you get the warrant," said Vick as she turned to go back into her office.

"Yes, Chief," said Lassiter while glowering at Shawn who just returned his look with a smirk. "Let's do this, people." He stalked off to his desk to call for the warrant as Shawn and Gus bumped fists.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter's growling stomach reminded him that he'd forgotten to eat lunch. It was after 3PM and he and Juliet were looking for Hammond's car on Carson Street. In the passenger seat, Juliet obviously heard the noise of his stomach and flashed him an amused smile. He cleared his throat when he felt another growl coming on and spoke to help cover the noise.

"Why the hell would this guy park his car out here? It's not near his place or the rest home."

"Maybe he has a friend who lives in this area," said Juliet with a shrug as she continued to scan out the window for the white Ford sedan.

"Maybe. Still doesn't make much sense," he groused. "And where's Spencer? I thought they were going to follow us."

"Gus said something about Shawn owing him some churros, and they'd catch up," said Juliet.

Lassiter scowled and shook his head. "Children..." he mumbled.

"Yeah, but they've really helped us on this case, Carlton. You have to admit that. And the Francis case, don't forget."

"They just brought us the intern on the Francis case. The cashier at the 7-Eleven could've done that," said Lassiter.

"You could give them more credit," said Juliet with a wry smile but a note of seriousness to her voice that brought Lassiter up short.

He sighed. "Fine. They've helped. Better?"

"Maybe if you told them that..."

"Don't push it, O'Hara," he said darkly.

She smiled and shook her head, then something caught her eye as she sat up straighter. "Carlton, I think that's the car."

He looked out her window and saw a white Ford sitting at the back of an empty lot. "What the hell?"

"That's odd, why would he park it back there?" asked Juliet, sharing a puzzled look with her partner.

"I have no idea," said Lassiter as he pulled up to the curb to park. "If Spencer was here, maybe he could tell us. But he's busy with food, surprise, surprise."

Juliet pursed her lips and climbed out of the car. Lassiter walked around to stand next to her on the sidewalk as they gazed at the white car parked fifty feet away, isolated at the back of the dirt lot. On their left was a brick warehouse that looked abandoned and on their right was a parking area. The only other object in the lot itself was a beat up dumpster about halfway between the road and the back of the lot. It was shoved up against the wall of the warehouse, and some piles of rags and other garbage had built up on the ground next to it.

"Huh. Well, shall we?" asked Juliet as she started to walk towards the car.

Lassiter hesitated for a moment, scanning the empty space again as if there was anything else to see. Something was bothering him about the situation, but he couldn't even articulate what it was to himself, so he didn't feel like he could say anything to his partner. He scowled at the niggling discomfort and the loud growling of his stomach and started to follow Juliet. Just then, he heard the familiar whine of a tiny engine and the sound of tires screeching. He turned to see Gus's blue car pull up across the street from his Crown Vic. Shawn jumped out of the car with a half-eaten churro in his hand and waved it at Lassiter over the blue roof.

"What the hell took you so long?" yelled Lassiter. He took a few steps backwards as he faced the pair of friends. He watched as Gus got out of the car, cheeks puffed out with the giant mouthful of food he was chewing. Lassiter's stomach performed another loud rumbling in response to the sight. "Move your butts!"

Shawn paused in the middle of the street and started to turn around, presumably to perform some idiotic dance or other ridiculous maneuver. Lassiter growled and looked away before he had to witness whatever it was. He wondered if he'd ever learn to watch what he said to Shawn, because he somehow managed to always say things in a way that royally backfired. As he was turning to face the white car again, he caught a glimpse of something against the warehouse wall. It was a face. He blinked and did a double-take, twisting his head to stay oriented on the face even as his body continued to turn. The face was on top of what he'd taken to be a pile of rags and garbage, but he realized with a jolt that it was a man sitting against the wall. The man was looking back at him with an odd smile.

"Carlton?" called Juliet.

He paused and flicked his gaze to see that his partner was just beyond the dumpster, about fifteen feet ahead of him and halfway across the empty lot. She was half-turned to him, arms out in a questioning gesture. He opened his mouth to try to explain as he looked back at the raggedy man. Part of his brain reasoned that the guy was probably homeless. Thanks to years of police training and forced habit, another part of his brain sharpened his focus on the man when he looked at him again, taking in details of the mostly gray hair, long, unkempt beard and deeply brown, almost black, eye color. There was a scar across the bridge of his nose.

Then, as Lassiter watched, the man put his hands up to cover his ears. Lassiter blinked, feeling a sudden rush of panic as his stomach dropped into his shoes. He took a breath to scream O'Hara's name. The world was blanked out by a flash. A wall of heat slammed into him as what remained of the world was shattered by a deafening roar. He felt himself flung into the air, flailing blind and deaf and scorched, until the impossibly hard reality of the dusty ground slammed into him. For what seemed like an eternity, he was simultaneously floating in a blank whiteness and flattened painfully against an unforgiving surface. The first thing he could recognize again was the feeling of dirt in his mouth. He coughed, tasting bitter dirt and smoke and the sharp tang of blood. He blinked and realized that his eyes were already open. The whiteness remained and the panic welled up in his chest again. But then, finally, shapes and colors started to swirl as his vision coalesced. He was lying mostly on his stomach, left arm pinned underneath. He moved his right hand and saw the little puff of dust the movement produced. He focused on the dust, and then blinked again to focus beyond it. Black smoke was obscuring details, but he realized he was staring at the warehouse wall from about ten feet beyond where he'd been standing before the blast. He squinted as more sensations started to flood his awareness all at once. Pain, mostly, and confusion and the slow-build of anger he knew would erupt when his faculties had finally collected and the fact that someone had just blown he and his partner up became conceivable. He was still working up to that, though. He moved his hand again, trying to figure out how to make it do what he wanted, which was to get up off of the ground.

Something moved in the distance through the haze. He saw a mass of brown drabness detach itself from the warehouse wall, shifting along it like a shadow. He made a noise, a growl or a groan or both, but the only evidence of it was the rumble in his chest. There was no sound, not that he could hear. He hoped his hearing would come back, like his sight had thankfully done, but in that instant he almost didn't care as he tracked the drab shadow on the warehouse wall. It was the homeless man. He was standing now, and walking along the wall towards the road. Lassiter coughed again and tried to yell, only seeing the puff of dirt from his breathing and feeling the tight frustrated exertion in his chest that was presumably an audible scream. He wrenched his body into some kind of motion, desperate to rise and give chase, but he seemed to only be able to writhe uselessly. The man paused at the corner of the building and looked at him. His face crinkled into a smile behind the shaggy beard. He raised a hand, forefinger pointed to form a mock gun as he fired a "shot" at Lassiter. Then he turned and disappeared.

With a titanic effort, Lassiter put his hands on the ground and heaved his chest up, locking his elbows as he pulled his knees in until he was mostly stable on all fours. The repositioning seemed to take way too much of his energy and he paused for a few breaths. He twisted his head to look towards the back of the lot and saw the white sedan reduced to a smoldering hull. He also saw his partner sprawled in the dirt, unmoving.

"Juliet!" he was pretty sure he yelled, although only a vague, muffled semblance of her name echoed in his head.

Someone streaked past him, and a second later he felt hands on his back. There were more garbled noises that he was starting to recognize as voices. He looked at Juliet again and saw that it was Shawn who had run to her. He was kneeling on the ground beside her, one hand on her back and one hand to her neck, checking for a pulse. A spike of pain pierced his skull and he groaned, lowering his head. The hands tightened on his shoulders, helping him stay upright. It had to be Gus. He reached out and grabbed at Gus's arm.

"He was right here," he tried to say. "The guy was right here. We have to get him."

Muffled Gus noises seemed to be saying something about being hurt and staying down. Lassiter shook his head and sat up, using Gus's arm for support as he twisted towards him, grabbing at him with both hands.

"He went that way," he said as he grasped and pulled at Gus while he tried to get his feet planted on the ground. "He's getting away."

He pushed with all of his strength and managed to stand. Gus stumbled under his weight as Lassiter lost his balance and fell against the other man. He leaned towards the warehouse while Gus tried to get a grip on him, ending up with his hands under his armpits in an awkward makeshift hug. Lassiter's eyes were fixated on the corner where the raggedy man had disappeared. He stretched out an arm, as if he could pluck the man back from wherever he'd gone. Gus's voice was still mumbling in his ear, easier to make out with his left ear than with his right.

"You need to lie down. You're going to hurt yourself more. Please calm down," said Gus, sounding concerned even through the muffled effect.

Lassiter wondered at Gus's tone for a moment, feeling a sudden detachment, as if he'd floated outside of his body and was watching everything as a spectator. Then a wave of weakness smashed into him and his legs disappeared. Gus's arms under his armpits kept him from crashing to the ground as he collapsed. Suddenly his senses were only registering randomly, so that sights and sounds and feelings had a strobe-like effect. He was looking at the ground, then he was looking at the sky, the pretty blue marred by the smudgy black column of smoke. Pain split his skull at the same time as a small rock was poking irritatingly into the back of his shoulder. A familiar whine of sirens came to him from across a great distance and the muffled mumble of Gus's voice said things he didn't bother to recognize. Gus's face filled his vision, then was gone. He felt his head roll to the side and saw Spencer still huddled over his partner, yelling something silently at Gus. There was a moment of blackness, then he could see them again. He saw blood staining her blond hair. Blackness. He saw Spencer's face contorted with fear and frustration as he yelled at someone or something. He felt the anger inside, going to sleep for now but ready to boil over when the time came. Then the blackness descended for good.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Come on, Gus, step on it. You know how I like to be there when my visions pay off," whined Shawn from the passenger seat of the little blue car.

Gus spoke around a mouthful of churro. "I'm going as fast as I can. You know I wasn't going to let you weasel out of our churro bet, Shawn."

"Weasel? Really, Gus? When have I ever weaseled out of any bets? At most, I grouse about it, then I chicken out, and later I crow about it. I can do the bird stuff fine, but small rodents, seriously?"

"Whatever. I'm just glad I got my churro. And it's not like you have real visions anyway. This one's even worse than normal. You didn't even figure it out yourself!"

"It's not always about figuring it out, man. It's about being in the right place at the right time," said Shawn.

"And being the luckiest sonofabitch alive?" asked Gus with a smirk.

"You know that's right," grinned Shawn.

"Ah, there they are now," said Gus as he turned a corner and saw the blue Crown Vic parked on the street. "We're not late at all." He pulled his car over on the other side of the street from the detectives' car and took another huge bite of churro. "Mmmm."

"Speaking of small rodents, you look like a chipmunk," said Shawn as he climbed out of the car.

He waved at Lassiter, who was barking at him from the empty lot. Juliet was still walking towards the white sedan. Shawn wondered why the car was parked at the back of an empty lot, and a small feeling of concern nibbled at his guts as he started to cross the street. When Lassie yelled something about moving butts, though, the concern was washed away by thoughts of how to follow the detective's orders. He paused to perform a small butt-dance that he figured Lassie wouldn't be man enough to watch. When he turned back around, he saw he was correct. Lassiter was turned halfway back towards the white car and Juliet was facing him, saying something to him. He noticed that Lassie was gazing at the warehouse, for some reason, but before he could even try to figure out why, the white car exploded. Shawn's senses blanked out for a moment from the flash and noise of the explosion. He felt the shock wave and crouched instinctively, covering his head with his arms. After a moment he blinked and found himself huddled down beside the Crown Vic, returning Gus's wide-eyed stare.

"Oh my god," breathed Gus.

"That didn't just happen," said Shawn. "That did NOT just happen." He felt a wave of panic rush over him and stood up, scanning the lot. He saw the two detectives sprawled in the dirt, unmoving. "NO!" He started to run around the car.

"Shawn!"

"They're hurt! Call for help," said Shawn as he ran full tilt to Juliet's side.

**OoOoOoO**

Gus dialed his phone as he followed Shawn around the car and ran towards Lassiter. He could see the detective moving, and felt a quick surge of relief.

"There's been an explosion on Carson Street. People are hurt," said Gus as soon as the 911 operator answered. "At least two people." He reached Lassiter's side just as the man had managed to get up on all fours and had yelled something out. The operator was trying to ask him questions, but he was suddenly concerned that Lassiter would cause himself more harm by moving around so much. He hung up his phone and grabbed the detective's shoulders. "Lassie, you need to lie down. Don't get up."

Lassiter was saying something, but his words were slurred and it was hard for Gus to decipher them. Something about a man and they had to get him. Gus kept trying to calm him down, figuring he must be delirious or something, but he realized after a moment that the detective might not be able to hear him. He could see blood coming from his right ear, and he was yelling his garbled words. Gus could tell that his own ears had suffered from the noise of the explosion, feeling like he'd just gotten out of a rock concert where he'd been sitting right in front of the speakers. Lassiter's hearing would be in even worse shape since he'd been so much closer to the blast.

Lassiter kept trying to rise as he reached up and pulled at Gus's arm. Gus was wondering if he was going to have to force Lassiter back to the ground, and how he'd actually go about doing that, when the detective grabbed at him with both hands, yelling again about the man. For a moment he had to concentrate on keeping his balance as Lassiter climbed to his feet using Gus as his support. They ended up in an awkward hug as Lassiter stood and leaned into Gus, reaching past him and towards the warehouse. Gus strained to stay upright. He had no clue what else to do, other than to keep the man from falling over and taking him down at the same time. His gaze focused on Shawn for a moment, and he saw that Juliet still wasn't moving. Shawn looked panicked. Gus tried once more to reason with Lassiter, speaking loudly into his left ear.

"You need to lie down. You're going to hurt yourself more. Please calm down," he said desperately, feeling concern overwhelming the niggling sense of embarrassment their position would normally instill in him.

Lassiter made an odd, defeated noise and suddenly went boneless in Gus's grasp.

"Oh, crap," gasped Gus as he was suddenly supporting Lassiter's full weight. He felt the strain on his back as he worked to maneuver the man to the ground as gently as possible, stepping around so that his feet were on either side of Lassiter's legs as he finally lowered him onto his back. "Lassie! Lassie, just hang on. Help's on the way." He leaned over to look at the detective's face, but his blue eyes were unfocused and blinking.

"Shawn! How's Juliet?" he yelled, turning to his friend as he finally heard the sweet sounds of sirens approaching.

"She's bad, Gus. She's got blood on her head, and she's not moving at all. She's got a pulse, though, and she's breathing okay, I guess," yelled Shawn. Their eyes met and Gus could see the fear in his friend's expression. "Should I move her?"

"No! Don't move her," yelled Gus, understanding the helpless feeling Shawn was suffering, the desire to do something, anything. He was feeling the same way. "The ambulance is almost here."

"How's Lassie? I thought he was standing up."

"He was, but he shouldn't have been. He's really out of it. He was mumbling something about a man getting away," yelled Gus.

"A man? I didn't see any man," said Shawn, expression clouded now with confusion as well as anxiety as he looked around vaguely at the empty lot. "Did you?"

"No. He's probably just delirious."

"Dammit! What the hell happened, Gus? Why did this happen?"

Gus just shook his head and leaned over to look at Lassiter. His eyes were still open, but his head had rolled to the side. As he watched, he saw his eyes slip shut and stay closed. Gus put his fingers to the detective's neck, feeling the surge of panic in his chest subside slightly when he found his pulse, although the frustrated feeling of helplessness remained.

"Just hang on, Lassie," he said quietly as the ambulance and fire trucks started to pull up to the curb. He turned and looked at his friend who had one hand twisted in his hair and one resting gently on Juliet's back.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn paced the waiting room, feeling like a pair of feral cats were fighting in his guts. He kept finding his hands on top of his head and then stuffing them back into his pockets, only to find them on his head again a few minutes later. He'd long ago stopped looking at the clock, the glacial pace of its hands pushing him too close to a crazed outburst. Gus was sitting nearby, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his hands, his stillness the polar opposite of Shawn's agitated motion. Shawn knew his friend felt the same way he did, though, on the inside. They'd been friends long enough that he knew when Gus was freaking out.

"It makes no sense," muttered Shawn again. "Why did that happen?"

"Hammond?" asked Gus again.

They'd gone through the scenario a dozen times already, although they both knew they were hardly thinking clearly enough to figure out the reason behind the attack on their friends.

"He's not the explodey type," said Shawn, shaking his head and putting his hands on his face. He felt like he almost had to hold his skull together. "Hell, I'm not even sure he knew we were on his trail, Gus. He was at that conference the last few days when we were doing the bulk of our investigation."

"True," said Gus, sounding reluctant about something.

Shawn knew what his friend was thinking, because he'd been trying not to think it himself since they'd arrived at the hospital an hour earlier on the tail of the ambulances. "The call," said Shawn, finally, unable to avoid the idea any longer. "The envelope and the call. It was a set-up." He stopped pacing and stood with his hands on his head. "What did I do, Gus?"

"You didn't do anything, Shawn. Don't start blaming yourself. You couldn't have known," said Gus quickly, as if he'd been rehearsing those lines.

"Of course I did something. I knew that call was suspicious. What the hell was I thinking?" groaned Shawn as he moved to a seat across from Gus, flopping into it as if lead weights were pulling him down. "What am I going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have to tell the chief," said Shawn, nodding at the nurses station nearby where Chief Vick was speaking with a doctor. She had arrived not long after them, having heard about the situation almost immediately. Buzz was around as well, retrieving coffee and snacks for everyone. "Don't I?"

Gus frowned and returned Shawn's worried look. If they stuck to their story of Shawn's information coming in a psychic vision, then they'd be withholding information about the person who was apparently responsible for the explosion. If they admitted to the police that Shawn had gotten the information from the mysterious caller, their psychic cover might be irreparably undermined.

"Maybe you can have a vision about the caller?" suggested Gus. "You can just have a vision that some mysterious man is behind the attack."

"But if I tell the truth, they might be able to trace the call I got at the office. Or they can dust for fingerprints on the envelope and Hammond's bank records, do a handwriting analysis on the note. Hell, I don't know, but it seems like I should tell them," hissed Shawn with a glance over his shoulder to check that the chief was still busy with the doctor.

"But then they'll know you had his bank records, which you shouldn't have. It might kill the case against Hammond."

Shawn sighed and rubbed his face roughly for a moment. "Maybe so. But at this point, is it more important that we nail Hammond, or that we catch whoever blew up Lassie and Jules?"

Gus frowned more deeply and just gave Shawn a helpless look. "Of course it's more important," he said finally. "But we can't be sure there IS any evidence they can find, if we tell them about the call. The phone might not be traceable. There might not be any fingerprints. And I doubt handwriting analysis is effective on its own. It's not just the case against Hammond that might be at risk here, you know."

Shawn drew in a deep breath and sighed again. "You're right. We at need to look into it ourselves, first. If we do find something solid, we can decide then."

"What are you deciding, gentlemen?" asked Chief Vick from nearby.

Gus and Shawn both jumped in their seats and flashed each other wide-eyed looks. "Um, nothing, Chief," said Shawn lamely.

The chief narrowed her eyes at them for a moment, then she drew in a breath. "I hope you aren't thinking of going off on your own to investigate this case," she said carefully, as if afraid she might just be giving them the idea herself. "This is obviously a very dangerous person, or persons, we're dealing with. I understand what you're feeling, believe me, but now is not the time to run off recklessly when we're not even sure yet who's responsible for this attack."

"Of course, Chief," said Gus a little too eagerly. "We wouldn't do that."

"What did the doctor say?" asked Shawn, desperate to change the subject while feeling the small rush of relief that the chief hadn't actually overheard their discussion.

"Detective Lassiter suffered a concussion and a tympanic membrane perforation," said the chief.

Shawn flashed Gus a puzzled look.

"Broken eardrum," said Gus.

"Ah, no kidding," said Shawn, still feeling the effects of the blast on his own hearing, and he'd been further away from it.

"Carlton's in a room already. He should be fine," said the chief, as if she was avoiding another subject.

Shawn knew exactly what that was. "Juliet?" he asked with trepidation.

Chief Vick sighed and sat down, looking suddenly tired. "Juliet is in worse shape," she said. "They're still evaluating her, but she's got significant head trauma and they're worried about brain swelling. Also, they think she might have some internal abdominal injuries. She may need surgery. They won't be able to tell us anything for certain for a while."

Shawn and Gus both released anxious sighs.

"Gentlemen, do you have any idea how or why this happened?" asked Vick, gazing at them intently.

Shawn leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands tightly, keeping his gaze fixed on them. "I'm sorry, Chief. I don't know. I'm pretty sure Hammond had nothing to do with it, though."

"Oh, we will most certainly be speaking with Mr. Hammond," said the chief with a flinty tone. "But, I think you're correct. It doesn't make much sense that he was behind the explosion. He had no idea Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara were going to search his car today. Unless they suffered extremely bad luck, which I don't believe, this was a trap designed to harm them specifically. The question is, who DID know that they would be searching that car?"

Shawn clenched his jaw and kept his gaze fixed on his hands. He was wondering if the trap had been meant for him and Gus as well as the detectives. A cold spike pierced his core.

"Did you tell anyone else about your vision this morning, Shawn?" asked the chief.

Shawn flicked his gaze up to meet hers briefly, then looked away again. "No," he said simply.

She sighed. "Perhaps it was a trap for Mr. Hammond, and Lassiter and O'Hara got caught in it instead," she said glumly.

"Maybe," said Gus with a shrug.

Chief Vick stood up. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sit with Carlton. Perhaps you two should go on home for now."

"We'll stay a while longer," said Gus, glancing at Shawn's tense form. "Let us know if Lassie wakes up."

"I will," said the chief with a nod as she headed down one of the hallways.

After a few moments of silence, Gus cleared his throat. "Shawn," he began.

"Shawn!" came Henry's call across the waiting room.

"Oh god," whispered Shawn as he stood up quickly to face his approaching father.

"Are you okay? I just heard about the explosion. Why were you there? How did this happen? Who got hurt?" asked Henry in the rapid-fire tone he had when agitated.

"Dad," said Shawn, trying to interject.

"How do you get yourself mixed up with these situations?" asked Henry with exasperation as he reached them and put a hand on Shawn's shoulder.

"Dad."

"You're like some kind of disaster-magnet."

"DAD!" yelled Shawn.

Henry paused and blinked at him, the frantic anxiety of his expression tinted now with irritation. "Did you have something to do with this?"

Shawn opened his mouth and found the words he needed to say missing, as usual. After a moment of the dying-fish impersonation, he just sighed and said, "I'm okay, Dad. Lassie and Jules were hurt, though. Jules...well...pretty bad."

"Oh damn," said Henry as the initial frenzy of his arrival finally wore off. He grabbed Shawn and pulled him in for a tight, quick hug. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Shawn nodded and pulled away, then he sat down again, resuming his clasped-hand gazing. His dad showing up now was just about the worst possible timing. He wasn't sure how to explain, and he knew his dad would badger him to no end.

"Well, I'm glad you two are okay. How bad is Juliet?" asked Henry as he sat down too.

"They're not sure yet," said Gus. "Head trauma, possible internal injuries. They're still evaluating."

Henry nodded. Shawn could see him with his peripheral vision, but moreover he could feel the weight of his gaze as it settled on him like a wet wool blanket.

"What happened?" asked Henry, simply but with an intensity that brooked no equivocations. It was his standard "no-bullshit" tone.

Shawn looked at Gus who just gave him a grimace and a small shrug. He sighed and looked at his dad. "It's kinda complicated," he began.

Henry's gaze stayed steady, but his eyebrows rose slightly. He waited.

Shawn cleared his throat. "I got a call last night," he said.

After a quick moment, Henry asked, "From who?"

"I think it should actually be 'from whom,'" said Shawn.

"Cut the bullshit," hissed Henry. His face had set into a stony blankness now that he was obviously certain Shawn had done something wrong.

"I don't know who it was. He left an envelope at the office door..."

"Wait a second, he dropped an envelope at the office last night? While you were there?"

"Well, yeah," said Shawn.

"And then he called? Right away?"

"Almost instantly."

"And what was in the envelope?"

"Um," hedged Shawn. "Information about this case we're working on."

"What kind of information?"

Shawn cleared his throat again.

"Hey guys, here's your coffee," said Buzz, suddenly appearing and unknowingly rescuing Shawn from the uncomfortable interrogation, for the moment at least.

"Buzz! Thanks, man," said Shawn with eager gratitude.

"Hi, Mr. Spencer," said Buzz. "Did you want a coffee? You can have mine and I can go get another one."

Shawn shook his head. "No, no, Buzz, he's fine. He's off caffeine. Right, dad?"

"Actually I could use a boost," said Henry with a frown at Shawn. "If you don't mind."

"Sure, no problem," said Buzz as he handed the coffee to Henry. "Hey, before I go back to the cafeteria, did they say anything? Where's the chief?"

"Yeah, they said Lassie's in a room now. The chief went to sit with him. Juliet's still being evaluated," said Gus.

"Okay," said Buzz with a sad expression at the mention of Juliet. "I'll probably go sit with the chief. See you guys later."

Shawn grimaced as his tall, puppy-dog-eyed reprieve walked away. He swallowed and looked back at his dad's stare.

"Well?" asked Henry, taking a sip of coffee.

"Bank records," said Shawn.

Henry's brow furrowed. "Personal bank records? Of the guy you were investigating?"

Shawn nodded.

"Good grief, that's illegally obtained information. What did you think you could do with that?"

Shawn just put his hand to his head in his standard pose and Henry made a disgusted sound.

"He also told me where we'd find Hammond's car. Hammond is the guy we were investigating."

"This is the car that blew up?"

Shawn nodded.

"My god, Shawn! You led those detectives right into a trap!"

"Jeez, dad, hold it down," hissed Shawn, noticing a couple of nurses looking their way. "I didn't know it was a trap."

"Well, yeah, that's kind of why they're called traps, son. They're a secret until they're sprung."

Shawn growled and stood up to resume his pacing.

"Mr. Spencer, we really didn't think something like this would happen," said Gus, wading in. "We thought the caller was someone with a grudge against Hammond or someone who just didn't want to go directly to the police. How could we know it was someone setting a trap?"

Henry put down his coffee and rubbed his face with his hands, shoulders slumped. "This is bad, Shawn," he said. "You need to tell them what happened."

"We already went through this. We're going to see if there's any solid evidence first before we tell the chief. If the guy didn't leave any evidence, there's not a lot of point in telling the police."

"Not a lot...what..." Henry sputtered.

"I mean, we want to figure out a way to investigate it without blowing our cover," said Shawn.

"Ah, right. Psych. Your brilliant career choice," groused Henry.

Shawn shook his head. "Whatever, dad. Tell on us if you want. I'm tired of talking. We should go out and start finding the bastard who did this."

"Shawn," said Henry sternly.

"I need to get out of here," said Shawn.

"Shawn, please don't do anything stupid. I won't tell, not now at least. Let me help you," he said, the stern note in his voice replaced by beseeching.

Shawn just walked away towards the elevators, giving a vague wave behind his back but not looking. It felt like the feral cats had moved their fight into his head. He needed some fresh air and fresh scenery.

"We'll let you know if we need help," said Gus as he stood up to follow Shawn.

Shawn couldn't see but he guessed his friend was giving his dad a gesture or some other sign that he'd call him before they did something reckless. He could always count on Gus to at least try to arrange back-up. Shawn felt his dad's gaze like a heavy hand on his shoulder until the elevator finally opened and he was able to escape.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The old man held the oxygen mask against his face as he watched the news. He'd been laughing and carrying on so much that he'd been running out of breath. Ferdinand opened the door at Bob's knock, giving him a smile and a nod. It was a good day in the apartment. Bob made his way into the sitting room, seeing the footage that had been replaying on all of the local news stations for their 5PM and 6PM news shows. Bless the news media for having way too many local program times, he thought. He imagined how the morning programs would be showing the images over and over again as well. Morton was going to be in hog heaven for days.

"It's a thing of beauty, Bob," said the old man with a wistful happiness.

Bob gave him a fond smile as he settled into his normal chair. Ferdinand entered and set up two TV trays in front of the men and then retrieved their plates of supper from the kitchen. They ate in companionable silence while watching the rest of the news. After they were finished and the plates had been cleared away again, the old man sat back and reached for a cigar.

"Sinclair is an artist," he said. "Well worth the money."

"Yes, indeed, Morton."

"How about the psychic? I see he and his partner didn't get quite close enough. What's the status on them?"

"The ball is rolling already, Morton. They're going to get hit tomorrow where it hurts the most, right in the reputation."

"Fantastic," crooned the old man as he took a long puff.

"The case should be history by tomorrow afternoon. The girl, this Hammond buffoon, all of it's coming together like clockwork," said Bob proudly. He'd personally overseen the work by Ferdinand's cousin and was very pleased at his efficiency. He'd assured Ferdinand that they would call on him in the future as well.

Morton cleared his throat, his mood suddenly sober. He gazed at the smoke coming off of his cigar. "I'm going to get in touch with Maxwell tonight," said the old man with a note of hesitation in his voice.

Bob understood that tone. Morton and Maxwell had hardly spoken since Gladys's death, and he knew that his friend's strained relationship with his son had always caused him pain and frustration. Bob realized that Morton might be investing even more into the operation than just the goal of getting Maxwell's charges resolved. Perhaps he was hoping that his actions would win over his son. Bob shifted in his seat.

"That's nice, Morton," he said, wondering if he should try to caution him against getting his hopes up too high.

"I know what you're thinking," grumbled the old man. "But I'm just going to talk to him so he understands what's happening. Lord knows if he'll ever appreciate what I do for him, but he can at least be aware of it."

Bob cringed inwardly and realized he was already too late. He knew his friend and he knew that Morton had formed a fantasy in his mind of Maxwell expressing awe and gratitude for his father's efforts. But he also knew Maxwell, and he was pretty sure the kid wouldn't comply. He'd always been a dumb and spoiled kid and he'd grown into a thick and entitled adult. Bob could foresee a bad scene on the near horizon. From old habit, he started to anticipate Morton's possible reactions to better prepare himself to deal with them. Morton sighed and seemed to relax, though, as he shifted his focus once again.

"You know, I was thinking of trying to witness some of this first-hand," said the old man with a dreamy look in his eyes. "I know it's not something we do, but dammit if I don't want an up-close taste this time. I mean, how many more operations like this can we pull anyway?"

Bob blinked. "Um, what do you mean, exactly?"

"I want to go to the police station tomorrow, and just...observe."

"But, that's much too risky, Morton!"

"Risky? What am I risking? I'm just going to be an old coot sitting there trying to make a complaint about kids on my lawn or some shit. What else are they going to think? Hell, Bob, look at me. I've grown into the best disguise anyone could hope to have...senile old man!" he crowed and fell into a fit of laughter that forced him back to the oxygen mask.

Bob just sat dumbfounded for a few moments as the old man gasped and chuckled. He forced aside the nagging thoughts that his old friend had gone around the bend and considered his words. What risk would it really be? He looked at Morton and saw what people who didn't know him would see, a rickety old man with a walker and an oxygen tank and coke-bottle glasses. Who would think anything of him? He knew he himself had declined physically, as well. He wasn't quite as dilapidated, but he probably wouldn't be looked at twice sitting next to Morton in a police station waiting room. A slow grin built on his face, and then laughter started to bubble up with it.

"You know what, Morton? That sounds like a grand idea. Truly," he said. He poured two drinks and handed one to his friend. "A toast, to a field trip tomorrow!" They clinked glasses and giggled like young boys again.

**OoOoOoO**

"Please, Chief, can't you just get a laptop in here?" asked Lassiter with a tone of desperation that he could hear in his own voice, and which he hated, but he was too tired and woozy to prevent it.

"Absolutely not, Carlton," said the chief softly but with force. "You just woke up and you're suffering from a concussion. You will not do any work here!"

"It's just a mild concussion. And I can see the guy's face so clearly. If I could just look through some mug shots..." said Lassiter. Another spike of pain pierced his skull and he put a hand over his eyes. "Please."

Chief Vick sighed and rubbed at her own face. She'd been at the hospital all day, and was feeling worn out with worry and frustration. The news about Juliet hadn't gotten much better as the day had gone on. Her abdominal injuries didn't need surgery, which was good, but her head trauma was quite serious and they were contemplating putting her into a medically-induced coma to combat the brain swelling. They wouldn't know what, if any, brain damage she'd suffered until the swelling went down. And now, to top it off, Lassiter had woken up about an hour earlier and had proceeded to throw a fit about some man he claimed he'd seen at the scene of the explosion. She wasn't completely sure his memory could be trusted about this mysterious man having been there. Shawn and Gus had mentioned his comments about it before and had said they hadn't noticed anyone. But still, she was finding herself having to argue with him about this possible phantom-man and his desire to investigate him. She knew he was still hurting, and the news about Juliet had just piled on the suffering for him. She looked at him for a moment as he obviously fought through a bout of pain.

"Like I said, I'll get a sketch artist in here tomorrow," she said, leaning in again as she sat next to the left side of his bed. The hearing in his right ear was still severely impaired. "That's all I'm going to do, though, Carlton. Please don't argue anymore. You need to try and relax and rest."

He groaned, unable to hide his feelings as well as normal, which often wasn't all that well. "How the hell can I rest when that bastard is out there," he hissed. "He did this to her."

"He did this to both of you," said Vick. "And we'll track him down and nail his ass to the wall for it, but not tonight."

Lassiter swallowed, feeling a wave of nausea threatening. He had to focus on fighting it back, not wanting to be sick in front of the chief, so he didn't argue with her anymore about the mug shots. Still, he wasn't going to give up. He wasn't going to lie around on his back while the guy who'd nearly killed his partner ran around free.

The chief seemed to take his silence as acquiescence and sighed. "Now, do you need more pain medicine? Or anything else? I can call a nurse."

He shook his head, still struggling with his stomach.

"Okay," she said and sat back in her chair.

He could sense her unease and guessed at its source. "I'm fine, Chief," he said through gritted teeth. "You should go on home. You've been here all day." She was silent for just long enough that he knew his guess was correct.

"I can stay a bit longer," she said.

"No, it's alright."

She fidgeted for another few moments, and then the door of the room opened slightly and a head peered in, backlit from the hospital hallway. Lassiter put his hand over his eyes again at the brightness of the hall lights, guessing who it was from the silhouette and feeling his stomach flip threateningly.

"Hey, I just wanted to check on you," said Henry as he entered and held the door as it closed so it wouldn't make a noise. "Okay if I come in?"

"Looks like it," said Lassiter dryly, leaving his hand over his eyes. Thankfully, he felt his stomach finally settle back to normal.

"Hello, Henry," said the chief. "I didn't realize you were still here."

"I came back after dinner," he said. "Is there any more news on Juliet?"

Lassiter felt a raw pain in his chest as he listened to the chief fill in Henry on Juliet's condition. Each word felt like a splash of alcohol on an open wound. His partner might have brain damage. She might be in a coma, or be put into a coma, or whatever. Coma. It was not a good word. He wished the chief and Henry would've gone outside and left him alone instead of talking about it over his bed like he was some piece of furniture or a sick dog lying on the floor. He cleared his throat and their conversation halted.

"Lassiter," said Henry. "I'm glad to see you awake."

Lassiter just grunted. Henry cleared his throat and shifted his feet.

"Say, um, Henry," began the chief. "Are you going to stay a while? I was thinking of heading home..."

"Oh, uh, sure. I can stay."

Lassiter took his hand away from his eyes and stared at the chief, opening his mouth to protest.

"Carlton," said the chief with the edge of warning he'd long ago come to recognize.

He shut his mouth, but he couldn't prevent the grimace that contorted his face.

"Get some rest," she said, softer this time, as she patted his shoulder. Then she took Henry's arm and walked to the door of the room with him, whispering in his ear.

Lassiter sighed and felt the exertion of his conversation with the chief and of his emotions in general starting to weigh him down with sleepiness. He realized that the chief didn't even have to be whispering to Henry. They were on the right side of his bed now and he could barely hear them. He couldn't bring himself to worry about the state of his hearing, though. There were too many other things dominating his mind. He closed his eyes and saw the face of the homeless man. But he wasn't a homeless man, he was a cold-blooded hitman. It was so obvious. He wasn't sure why no one seemed to be taking him seriously. Did they not believe him when he said he'd seen the man? The frustration and anger started to roil again, inside, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The man had a scar on the bridge of his nose. He could see it, clear as day. He would recognize it, if he could just check photos, mug shots, records. There had to be a record on the guy. He was a hitman, a professional. He had to be. Lassiter wasn't sure why he was so certain, but he didn't care. He knew what he knew, and nobody was going to tell him he'd just dreamed it or that it had just been some random homeless guy who somehow knew the car was going to explode. He saw Juliet's still form again, and the blood on her head, and his eyes flew open.

Henry was sitting in the chair on his left. He didn't remember hearing him return. He blinked at him and wondered for a moment if he'd drifted to sleep. Henry gave him a brief nod, looking self-conscious. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

Lassiter swallowed thickly, feeling thirsty but perversely not wanting to ask Henry for any help. He shook his head.

"How about a drink?" asked Henry as he stood up and poured some fresh water into the styrofoam cup on the rolling table. He put in a bendy straw and held it close to Lassiter's face.

Lassiter cringed inside, but he was very thirsty, so he just closed his eyes as he took a few sips. He pulled back and nodded, not meeting Henry's gaze.

"So, uh, concussion they said? And broken eardrum?" asked Henry, obviously looking for a way relieve the discomfort of their situation.

Lassiter nodded.

"Coulda been worse."

Lassiter just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I guess it coulda," he rasped. He was fighting with himself to be civil. There was no reason to take out his frustrations on Spencer, other than the fact that he was a Spencer. That sort of thing seemed much more petty in this situation though. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself. Still, he couldn't help but feel irritated at the man, just like he always was with his son. He started to think about an excuse to get Henry to leave. Tired, nauseous, in pain...all things that were actually true anyway. He figured the man wouldn't want to stick around to watch him puke. He decided not to fight the urge the next time it cropped up.

"Did they tell you when you can go home?"

"Not yet."

"I always hated being stuck in hospitals. Couldn't wait to get home."

Lassiter nodded, feeling a wholehearted concurrence with Spencer on at least this point. "I'm hoping tomorrow. At least, I'm going to argue for that."

Henry smiled. "I hear ya." 

There was an awkward silence again. Lassiter glanced over at Henry and saw that he seemed preoccupied. Worried even. "So, uh, how's Shawn and Guster? I know they didn't get too close, but, are they okay?"

The worried look increased on Henry's face for a moment, but then he cleared his throat and adjusted his expression. "Yeah, they're fine. Thanks for asking," he said sincerely. "Shawn...well...he feels pretty bad about what happened."

Lassiter looked away for a moment, hoping Henry didn't notice the flash of anger on his face. He'd been avoiding the idea as much as possible since he'd woken, but he knew lurking in the background was the urge to blame Shawn at least partially for what had happened. It was his 'vision' that had led them to the car. Why didn't the vibes or spirits or whatever tell him the damned thing was going to explode? Or had he 'read' them wrong? Had he taken some kind of shortcut, psychically or whatever, that had ended up almost getting Juliet killed? He'd pulled that kind of reckless bullshit before. Lassiter sighed and fought to control his anger. It was building with such force that he couldn't completely prevent it from bleeding over to Spencer, but he also knew couldn't hold Shawn responsible for what had happened. At least, he had no reason to, yet. He licked his lips and contemplated the ceiling while he struggled to beat back the fury.

"Do you need another drink?" asked Henry.

"Sure," he said, glad for the change of subject this time and happy to take a few more sips of water.

"You know, I was blown up once myself," said Henry, the words sounding odd in the conversational tone he was using.

"Oh yeah?" asked Lassiter.

"Yeah, it was a long time ago. About 25 years I guess. We didn't get as close as you and Juliet, luckily, but it was a somewhat similar situation. My partner and I were working on a rumor that a mob enforcer had come to Santa Barbara on the trail of a snitch," said Henry settling back in his chair and getting a faraway look on his face. "We tried to get to the snitch first. Our sources gave us a location, a beat-up trailer near the docks, but when we got there the damned thing went up like a rocket, snitch and all. We just missed him. The blast rang our bells pretty good but, like I said, not as bad as you two."

"You never got the enforcer?"

Henry shook his head with wistful regret. "No. Bastard was a real professional. Slippery as hell. We never saw him."

"Do you know who it was?" asked Lassiter, thinking about the criminal history he liked to study in his free time and wondering if he knew who Henry was talking about.

"Well, we were never 100% sure," said Henry. "But we suspected it was a guy named Sinclair."

Lassiter squinted for a moment, recalling the name. "I've heard of him," he said, then he saw Henry's raised eyebrows. "I like to study up on this stuff." 

Henry smiled and nodded. "I see."

"He came from some distance, if it was him," said Lassiter as he recalled more information. "Wasn't he working out of Chicago?"

"Yeah, that's why were weren't too sure. It seems like a long way for them to bother with one little snitch."

Lassiter nodded, still intrigued by the idea. He suddenly realized the conversation had taken his mind off of everything, briefly. He felt an odd sense of discomfort that Henry had been able to help even in that small way, and he also felt an inkling of the camaraderie he'd felt when he'd gone fishing with Henry years earlier. At least, he'd felt that way briefly, before Henry had started to irritate the crap out of him with his lecturing. He sighed, suddenly feeling tired as hell. The last dose of pain medication was wearing off and he was getting uncomfortable.

"Hey, you look tired," said Henry, channeling some of that annoying Spencer psychic ability. "Do you need more medicine?"

"I might," said Lassiter, reluctant to admit it.

"I'll get the nurse, then I can let you get some sleep."

Lassiter nodded and closed his eyes as a spike of pain pierced his skull. The raggedy man's smiling face, and Juliet's bloodied head intruded on his mind, though. He groaned, wondering how long he would be haunted by the images. Once I catch the bastard who did this, he thought, I can at least have the picture of him dead or headed to jail instead. He sighed again and put his hand over his eyes.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn and Gus walked along the boardwalk towards the Psych office finishing off their ice cream cones. They'd taken a break after spending the rest of the evening trying to figure out who the mysterious caller had been. After they'd left the hospital, they'd gone back to the office to check the phone log, but the caller had been identified as "unknown." Then they had studied the bank record pages and the note, but nothing had seemed to lead them any closer to the mysterious man. They spent some time brainstorming, trying to come up with suspects and scenarios to explain who had led them to the exploding car and why. Shawn's agitation after the blast and the showdown with his father had been making it hard to think through the case clearly, though, so as usual, Gus had suggested a food break.

"I think you should just go home and get some sleep," Gus said as they walked.

"No. If I go anywhere it'll be to the hospital to check on Juliet," said Shawn as he tossed the last bites of his cone into a trash can. "I couldn't sleep now if I tried."

"Visiting hours are over, and she's going to be in intensive care, so they probably won't let you visit at all, at least not for a while," said Gus glumly. "You could watch season 3 of _Veronica Mars_ again. That always puts you to sleep."

Shawn sighed. "I want to look at that bank record one more time. There was something about it...I'm missing something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Gus, I think that's why they call it 'missing,'" sniped Shawn.

Gus huffed and shook his head. When they reached the office Shawn held back for a moment after Gus entered. Something on the ground caught his eye. It was off to the side of the door. He leaned over and squinted through the evening light at a dark smudge on the sidewalk. He stared at it for a moment, then squatted down to look at it from a different angle with the street lights shining on it. It was a footprint, or part of a footprint. He swiped a finger across the smudge and found a dark residue on his fingers, then he sniffed. He knew that smell. He sniffed again and it came to him: toner for a printer.

"What are you doing?" asked Gus who'd come back to the door to see what was delaying Shawn. "What is that?"

"I'm not sure," said Shawn as he stood up and filed the information away. It could be something, it could be nothing, he thought. "Where's that record again? Wait, let me wash my hands first."

After another few minutes of studying the copies of Hammond's bank records, Shawn realized with a jolt what he'd been missing. "They're not copies!"

"What?"

"These records. I assumed they were copies someone had gotten of Hammond's files, through the bank or online maybe, but they're not copies. This is the statement that was sent to Hammond's house from his bank. See, the way the address is printed here? And the fold lines? That's what I was missing!" exclaimed Shawn with a mix of triumph and exasperation. "I knew they looked off, but I couldn't put it together. Whoever gave us this bank statement got it directly from Hammond, or from his personal files!"

"Okay," said Gus, looking perplexed. "What does that matter?"

"It means either someone close to Hammond sent these to us, or someone broke into his house to steal them."

"So, we need to look into the people who are close to him? Why would any of them possibly want to blow up two police detectives though? If they were trying to protect him, why reveal his connection to the fake insurance company to police consultants? And if they were trying to get him arrested, why nearly kill the people who were on their way to doing just that?" asked Gus as he settled into his desk chair.

Shawn shrugged and leaned back in his chair, squeezing the stress toy. "Maybe they were just trying to blow up Hammond and Lassie and Jules got unlucky? But that doesn't make sense either because the caller told me specifically when and where the car would be," said Shawn with a meaningful look at Gus.

"He wanted us to get blown up too?" gasped Gus as realization dawned. "Damn!"

"Maybe," said Shawn with an apologetic shrug. "So what I'm thinking now is that it's option number 2."

Gus's brow furrowed. "Someone broke into his house to get the statement?"

Shawn nodded, a familiar look twinkling in his eye.

"Wait...okay, what are you thinking now?"

"We need to go to Hammond's house..."

"What!"

"Shhh, just let me..."

"Don't you shush me, Shawn," growled Gus.

"Let me explain!" yelled Shawn as he sat forward and threw the stress toy at Gus.

Gus ducked and then gave Shawn a scathing look.

"I just want to see if they left any signs around the house. I'm not planning to go in or anything," said Shawn defensively.

"That's a stupid idea," said Gus.

"It's not stupid," groused Shawn. "Well, maybe it is a little stupid, but it's the only idea I've got right now. I need to figure this out, Gus. Someone almost killed Juliet. And maybe tried to kill us."

"I know, but getting caught sneaking around a suspect's house when someone out there is setting bombs in the guy's car...who knows maybe his house is going to blow up next!"

"First of all, I'm not going to get caught," said Shawn. "And second of all, I'm pretty sure if anyplace is going to blow up next it would be this office."

They looked at each other for a moment with a shared expression of horror, then Gus stood up quickly. "I'm going home. I'm not doing any sneaking around bad guy houses late at night. And I'm going to see if the bomb squad can check this place tomorrow." He started walking quickly to the door.

"Gus! Come on, buddy," pleaded Shawn as he followed his friend out of the office. He didn't really think the place was rigged to blow, but he didn't mind the idea of leaving for the night either. "Just give me a ride over there."

"No, Shawn. I've had enough for one day. Take your bike. Go home. I'll see you tomorrow," he said, then he paused halfway out of the office door and turned to look at Shawn. "Do you want to go to the hospital in the morning?"

Shawn sighed, knowing he wasn't going to talk his friend into anything else. "Yeah. Pick me up. Can you make sure it's not before 9AM though?"

Gus rolled his eyes. "Sure. Good night, Shawn. Go watch _The Brady Bunch_ or something," said Gus with a grimace that said he knew his friend wouldn't be so sensible.

"Night, Gus."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Lassiter opened the back door of the station and strolled in as if he belonged there, because he did belong there, most of the time, when he wasn't supposed to be at the hospital still, after almost being exploded. He set his face in the near-scowl he used when he was about to conduct an important briefing or lead other officers on a dangerous raid. He was hoping his expression would curtail any questions about why he was there and how was he feeling and the other blah blah that inevitably came along. Mostly, he was hoping he could get to his desk and check some mug shots before the chief discovered his presence. It was early, very early, and he was pretty sure she wasn't even at work yet. His plan was to log in and start checking files and then relocate to the file room or evidence room computers when the station started to get busy.

He knew he was toeing the line more than normal. Technically, he hadn't been discharged from the hospital yet, but he was driven by a desperate need to discover the identity of the raggedy man. He squinted slightly as his headache spiked and a dizzy spell threatened, hoping that his steps would remain steady until the spell passed. He wasn't feeling well, but he was well enough. He could deal with some dizziness and a splitting headache and the piercing pain in his ear. The hallway swam for a moment and he slowed his steps, blinking until the world resettled. He sighed and sank gratefully into his desk chair, finally. No one had even passed him, so he was home free. He started his computer and rubbed his temples while he waited for it.

After Henry had left him at the hospital, he'd gotten a new dose of medication and had been able to sleep for several hours relatively comfortably, but then he'd woken at 4AM with the man's face in his dreams. He'd gotten up and dressed, unable to justify lying around any longer, then he'd gone to find Juliet. She was isolated in an intensive care room, but he'd been able to stand in the hallway and watch through a window in the door as she slept. He was only going to think of it as sleeping or resting, he'd decided. That's what it looked like, and the term "coma" had too many connotations he couldn't handle. So he watched her sleep until his doctor tracked him down and spoke with him about her condition and about his own. The man was nice enough, and Lassiter felt a little guilty about telling him he'd wait until the afternoon to talk about discharge again when he knew at the time he was going to walk out the doors as soon as he could. But, sometimes, in the name of justice, the truth had to be stretched.

When the computer was ready, he started searching files and mug shots, glaring off any curious glances that came his way. The station was still relatively deserted, though, other than a couple of custodians. For a moment he watched one of the custodians and remembered the man whom he'd almost bumped into the day before.

"Mr. Thompson," he called.

The custodian paused and glanced at him, then approached his desk. "Hello, detective. You're here early today," he said with a cautious smile, his eyes obviously taking in Lassiter's haggard appearance and scuffed up clothes.

Lassiter felt suddenly self-conscious, realizing that there were drops of blood on his shirt. He made a mental note to at least change shirts soon with one of the spares in his desk so that he'd be less obviously on the lam from the hospital. "I was wondering if you knew of anyone who called in sick yesterday, on the custodial staff, or who had someone else come in as a substitute."

"Yesterday," the man thought for a moment. "I don't believe anyone called in, sir."

"Are there any new staff members? I thought I knew everyone who worked here, but there was a man yesterday who I didn't recognize."

"He was a custodian? No, sir, there are no new employees. I'm not sure who you saw. Maybe it was just Javier? He had a big beard that he just recently shaved off. It really changed the way he looked."

Lassiter shook his head, but he didn't want to continue the conversation. Thompson wasn't the supervisor, so he decided he should just talk to that man instead. "I don't think so, but who knows. Thank you for your time," he said with a cursory smile.

The man nodded and smiled in return, though his brow was furrowed in confused curiosity. "Have a nice day, detective."

"You too."

Lassiter sighed and stood up to get something to drink. He was parched and needed water, but he thought coffee could be good too. He swayed for a moment upon standing and cursed inwardly at the lingering effects of his concussion. He didn't have the patience to deal with his physical shortcomings and had always begrudged the time needed for healing. Crime didn't wait for boo-boos to get better.

After almost an hour of searching that did little to alleviate his frustration, Lassiter was starting to wonder if he should've stayed at the hospital after all. He was feeling decidedly unwell. His chin was resting heavily on his hand as he flipped the computer through another few pages of mug shots. He sat back and rubbed his hands on his face as he rested his aching head against the back of his chair. When he lowered his hands he realized with a start that someone was standing at his right elbow. It was the chief. He hadn't heard her approach.

"Chief Vick!" he said, lurching to his feet and feeling a flush crawl up his neck. Then he was further embarrassed by the slight sway that he suffered from standing too quickly.

"Carlton," she said with obvious indignation as she reached out and grabbed his elbow. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Um, I'm sorry, chief. I didn't realize you were here yet."

She raised her eyebrows as she released his elbow and crossed her arms. "You mean you're sorry you didn't do a better job of avoiding me?"

"No, uh, what I mean is, I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I was here. I, um, talked to the doctor, and then came over a little while ago to check those mug shots," he said, hoping the lie of omission wasn't too noticeable.

"No, what you REALLY mean is you disregarded the doctor's orders to stay until at least this afternoon," she said sternly. "I just spoke with him."

That's what lying gets you, he thought to himself. "Oh," said Lassiter, at a loss for what else to say to the chief.

"Carlton, I want you to go back to the hospital right now."

"Chief, please, I can't do any good there."

"You can't do any good here if you aggravate your concussion."

"I feel fine." 

"No you don't."

He tried to muster up an indignant expression, but her own intent gaze stifled his effort. Instead he shrugged and said, "I feel capable of doing a little work."

"I seriously doubt that as well," said the chief, her lips twisting wryly as she regarded him.

"I," he paused, unsure of how else to beg without sounding quite so much like he was begging.

He glanced around, looking for rescue or some kind of escape. He noticed two old men sitting on a bench near the front door, across from the reception desk. One of them was looking at him with an odd smile on his face, but then he decided he had to be imagining things. The old geezer wouldn't be able to see him from that far away, he figured. He looked back at the chief, trying to come up with more words to say when his salvation finally arrived in the form of a commotion erupting from the back door. Spencer's voice sounded out from the din.

"What in the world?" said the chief as she turned and headed towards the back door and booking area. Lassiter followed, holding a hand to his ear for a moment as a needle of pain pierced it. He shook his head and glanced back at the old men, but they were talking to each other and not looking at him anymore.

"This is so totally wrong!" yelled Shawn. "I didn't do it! I'm innocent!"

"Officer Baker, what is going on here?" asked the chief as she stepped quickly down the stairs.

Lassiter followed more slowly, not wanting to make a scene by stumbling or all-out falling down the steps. Besides, the current scene in front of him was enough of a spectacle. Shawn was standing, handcuffed, next to Officer Baker who had a somewhat sheepish look on his face.

"Chief, I had to arrest Mr. Spencer here."

"On what charge?" asked the chief, crossing her arms and giving the officer and Shawn both her sternest glare.

"Burglary. A Mr. Hammond of Rosecrest Avenue reported that his house had been burglarized."

"Hammond?" gasped Lassiter.

"Yes, sir. I responded to his call and found that his home office had been ransacked and his files had been raided. And then he showed me this," said Baker as he held up a clear baggie with a green-cased iPhone inside. "He said he found it under some of the papers in his office and figured it belonged to the burglar."

Shawn and everyone else stared at the phone for a moment, mouths agape.

"I lost my phone two nights ago," said Shawn quietly. "I went to a restaurant with Gus and when I got back it was gone." He gave the chief a desperate look. "Just ask Gus!"

"Relax, Mr. Spencer," said Chief Vick, holding up a hand. "We will of course hear your side of the story, but I believe you've been read your rights and you should heed them, for now. Just until we can get this all straightened out."

Shawn gave the chief an agonized look. Lassiter's brow furrowed. He so often doubted what the psychic said, but he also found himself strangely reluctant to believe that he would burglarize the home of a suspect. He was irresponsible, but he wasn't THAT irresponsible. Was he?

"There's more, Chief," said Baker. "I went to Mr. Spencer's office and found him there, sleeping. I also found this." He held up another baggie with a bank statement inside.

The chief took the baggie and peered at the statement, then she turned an outraged look on Shawn. "This is Mr. Hammond's personal bank statement!"

Shawn's look of agony had turned to a decidedly sheepish look at that point. Lassiter's brain was spinning and he turned to find a chair nearby, easing into it as the implications of what was happening started to sink in. Their evidence against Hammond had been obtained illegally. That meant that almost their entire case against him was ruined. Lassiter felt the pool of anger inside rippling. He was angry at the man who had almost killed his partner. But the man was somehow connected to Hammond, even if it was only through the fact that he had used Hammond's car in the attack. If Shawn had done something to jeopardize that case, then what else could he have done?

"I'm sorry, Shawn, but we're going to have to book you and sort this out," said the chief as she handed the evidence bags back to Baker.

"Where is your chief? I demand to speak to your chief immediately!" whined a voice from the bullpen. Everyone turned to watch as another uniformed officer led a portly bald man down the steps. He was also handcuffed.

"I'm Chief Karen Vick," said the chief, stepping forward to meet the man. "I take it you are Mr. Ronald Hammond?"

"I am. And I am the victim here, so why am I being handcuffed like a hoodlum?" sputtered the red-faced man. "That officer right there was just at my house, and then when he left this one showed up and put me in handcuffs! What the hell is going on?"

"Sir, your car exploded and injured two of my detectives," said the chief. "You've been brought here to answer questions about that incident."

"My car was stolen! I just got back from a conference last night and found my house robbed and my car gone! I have no idea how or why it exploded."

Lassiter sat forward and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling like his eyes were going to pop out of his head from the pressure of the headache. Shawn made a derisive noise. Hammond focused on him and then on Officer Baker.

"Is this the burglar?" he asked. Then his eyes blazed with anger and he lunged at Shawn, breaking out of the grip the other officer had on his arm. "You asshole!"

Chief Vick and the two officers jumped between Shawn and Hammond. Shawn just tried to back away. His expression held both surprise and irritation. Lassiter stood up and grabbed Shawn's elbow. He tugged him away from the furor and pushed him down the hallway and into an interrogation room. When they were inside, he shut the door firmly and turned a glare on Shawn.

"What did you do?" he growled.

"Lassie! What are you doing out of the hospital? You don't look so good," said Shawn with a raised eyebrow. "Hey can you get these cuffs off please?"

"WHAT did you DO?" snapped Lassiter more forcefully.

Shawn let out a sigh of frustration. "Lassie, I didn't do it. You have to believe me," said Shawn as he twisted his arms in discomfort. "I may have done some questionable things before, but I swear to God I didn't break into that guy's house."

"The evidence seems to say otherwise," said Lassiter, glaring so hard at the psychic that his head was starting to pound fiercely. He could feel the anger boiling inside as his brain made connections between Shawn and the case and the explosion that seemed to become more and more possible to his racing, desperate mind. He couldn't be sure if the red haze that started to form around Spencer was from his headache or his fury. "And if you've done something that STUPID!" Lassiter bellowed the last word so loudly that Shawn jerked and took two steps backwards. "Then what ELSE did you do?"

Shawn's expression turned from shock to anger. "Damn it, Lassie! I told you I didn't break into the dude's house. Can't you ever, for once, believe me?" He grimaced and twisted his arms once more and then smiled grimly at Lassiter as he brought his newly un-cuffed hands forward.

Lassiter squinted, not sure how Shawn had gotten himself free but not particularly caring. The snarky grin seemed to set off a flashpoint inside. The pounding in his head was being matched by his heart as his pulse raced, goaded by outrage that was further fueled by years of irritation suffered at Shawn's hands. A part of him knew that letting their past interactions affect his feelings now wasn't logical, but he'd passed a point of control. The frustration and anger over the attack and Juliet's injury, and of the phantom man, found an outlet in Shawn, standing there in the room with him. He was reachable, an easy target, unlike the shadowy figure that no one else even seemed to believe existed. His fatigue and pain and rattled emotions were starting to spiral, and at the edges of his vision, so was the room. He drew in a breath and skewered Shawn with his glare.

"Did you have something to do with leading O'Hara and me into that attack?" he asked quietly and with a clear note of menace.

Just like out in the booking area, Shawn's expression changed from indignation to guilt. Lassiter knew then, with razor-sharp certainty, that Shawn had done something. His brain wasn't in any condition to contemplate gradations of guilt, however. He stalked forward.

Shawn held up his hands. "Lassie, come on, man. I can explain."

"I will kill you, Spencer, so help me..." said Lassiter as he took another step. His heart felt like it was trying to burst out of his chest and likewise his brain out of his head. The room was most definitely trembling at the edges and he wondered for a moment if an earthquake was taking place. Then a spearpoint of pain moved from his ear into his skull and he stumbled, losing all sense of balance.

"Whoa!" yelled Shawn as he jumped forward and caught Lassiter who'd fallen to his knees next to the interrogation table. "Easy, Lassie."

Shawn pulled out a chair and helped Lassiter into the seat. Lassiter groaned and leaned his elbows on the table, cradling his splitting skull in his hands.

"I have to tell you, Lassinator," said Shawn as he patted his shoulder. "That intimidating act of yours comes across way better if you don't faint in the middle of it."

"Shut up, Spencer."

"Seriously, man, you had me convinced. I really thought you'd kill me."

Lassiter ground his teeth. "As soon as the room stops spinning..."

Shawn sighed and sat across the table from Lassiter, looking tired and frustrated. "Look. I'm sorry. I didn't know that car was going to explode, man. Of course I didn't!" he hissed. He sat forward to lean on the table as well and scrubbed his face with his hands. His voice took on a note of irritation. "You have to have an idea how I feel about Juliet. Do you really think I would've risked her life like that if I'd known?"

Lassiter raised his head and met Shawn's gaze, noting the guilt but also the fear and anger and a glint of determination. His fury faltered slightly, at least in its newly-found focus on Shawn. But his natural stubborness remained. "I don't know what to believe, Spencer," he said. "But I do know the man I saw yesterday set that explosive. It had to be him, and I'm going to find the sonofabitch."

"What man?" asked Shawn with a pained look. "I didn't see him."

"He was sitting by the dumpster. He looked like a pile of rags."

Shawn gave Lassiter a look of doubt and confusion.

"I know what I saw, Spencer!" growled Lassiter.

"Okay, okay," said Shawn, holding up his hands. He frowned and shook his head as he leaned back in his chair, his expression turned inward, as if he was searching his memory for something. The door to the interrogation room opened as Henry and Gus rushed into the room, looking as if they'd expected to find a melee underway. Chief Vick was close on their heels.

"Shawn!" said Henry as he stepped to his son's side. "What did you do?"

"Detective Lassiter, what do you think you're doing?" said the chief simultaneously. She flashed Henry an irritated look across the table as she moved to stand next to Lassiter.

There was a moment of silence, and then everyone started speaking at once. Shawn was defending himself from his father while Gus tried to ask him what had happened the night before. Lassiter was trying to explain to the chief why he'd brought Shawn into the room and was also fending off Henry's indignation. The chief was trying to get everyone to take turns.

Finally, she just yelled out, "QUIET!"

They all stopped talking and looked at her. Lassiter had a hand up to his right ear and a grimace of pain on his face.

Chief Vick regarded them all. "You two," she said, pointing at Henry and Gus. "My office." They looked at her with varying expressions of defiance and sheepishness, but then they turned and left the room. She turned to Shawn. "You, go with Officer Baker."

Shawn sighed and stood up as Baker waited for him at the door. "Where's Ponch today?" asked Shawn with a sneer as he let the officer lead him back to the booking area.

"And you," said Chief Vick as she turned to face Lassiter. "Go back to the hospital."

Lassiter realized he still had his hand over his ear and lowered it as he stood up. "Yes, ma'am," he said with tired resignation.

"Buzz will take you. Get checked. If they release you, go home and rest. That's an order," she said sternly. But then her voice and expression softened. "If you are released and you feel up to it, I want you to come in tomorrow so we can discuss everything."

He nodded, feeling suddenly as if he needed to sleep off a week's worth of all-night stakeouts. Buzz met him in the booking area and they walked together through the bullpen and out the main station doors to Buzz's cruiser. As they passed by, Lassiter noticed the two old men still sitting on the bench. The one with coke-bottle glasses and the oxygen tube in his nose flashed a grin at Lassiter that held a decidedly feral note. It sent a chill down his spine, and he returned the old man's look with a scowl.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Henry, we have to carry through with this investigation. I'm sorry that it's difficult, but I know you understand," said Chief Vick.

"Yes, of course I do. But I'm sure you understand that I'm going to be looking into this as well and helping Shawn in any way that I can," said Henry. He sat back in his chair and chewed briefly on a nail as his knee bounced.

She nodded. "Of course."

"Can I post bail today?" asked Henry. He glanced over at Gus who had been sitting next to him silent as a mouse the whole time they'd been in the chief's office.

"It's early. He can probably get into court this afternoon. So there's a good chance, yes."

"Great. Can I talk to him now?"

"Sure, you can take a few minutes, but save the interrogations for later, please. Just let him know what's happening," said the chief.

Henry snorted and stood up. "Right. Thanks, Karen. Come on, Gus."

Gus followed Henry out of the chief's office like a lost puppy. Henry stalked down the steps and asked about Shawn but was told they'd have to wait a few more minutes while he was finished being booked before they could speak with him. He turned to Gus and narrowed his eyes.

"Okay, Gus. Spill," said Henry.

Gus blinked. "What?"

"What did you two not tell me?"

"Nothing!" said Gus, glancing around to be sure no one else was in hearing distance.

Henry almost felt like shouting to the whole station that his son and his son's childhood friend were frauds, just to finally be finished with all of the skulking around. He was fed up with it, especially when it contributed to his son getting police officers injured and getting himself arrested.

"Did he break into that guy's house?"

"No, sir," insisted Gus, face setting into defiance. "His phone went missing two nights ago. It must've been stolen. We just, you know, thought he misplaced it." Gus grimaced and shook his head. "He's being set up, Mr. Spencer. Whoever set that explosive is probably doing this too."

Henry squinted and regarded Gus for a few moments, but as the younger man squirmed under his gaze his thoughts were actually on the events of the past day. He realized that Gus was right. Someone had set them up. But why?

"Please, Mr. Spencer, you have to believe us," pleaded Gus.

"I do, Gus. I do. I think you're right. Someone set you two up, and Lassiter and O'Hara, also, either directly or indirectly. Unfortunately, Shawn was too wrapped up in his search for glory to see it, am I right?"

Gus's eyes flashed with anger. "That's a little harsh."

"He knew that envelope and the call were suspicious, didn't he?" 

Gus pursed his lips and nodded reluctantly.

"And he didn't tell the police about it. He just had one of his 'visions' and sent them into the trap."

"But..."

"Yes, he didn't know it was a trap, yadda yadda. BUT, that's because he wasn't using his head, Gus," growled Henry. Then he sighed at Gus's hurt expression and wiped a hand across his face. "Alright. We'll figure this out. We'll get him out of here. If he didn't break into that house, there won't be any other evidence than his phone, so he probably won't have to face charges beyond possession of stolen property. And in the meantime, we can all put our heads together and try to figure out who's doing this. Maybe we can catch the bastard and Shawn will be off the hook for good."

Gus sighed and nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Mr. Spencer."

"Don't thank me yet," grumbled Henry.

After ten minutes, they were told they could speak with Shawn on his way to the holding cells. The conversation turned out to be short and uncomfortable as they stood in the middle of the booking area. Shawn was in no mood for a lengthy discussion and Henry was finding it harder not to lay into his son than he'd expected. The stress of the events since the explosion, and mostly because of the explosion, still had him on edge. He couldn't shake the idea that Shawn and Gus had been the real targets of the attack and the detectives had just been unlucky. Or, at the very least, all four of them had been the targets. In any case, his son was being stalked by a person or persons willing to kill. And when he got himself into those situations, Henry's first reaction was always anger. Anger at his son's recklessness and anger at his own failure to train him better. Following on anger was the feeling of desperation. He was driven to jump in and make everything right again, and when that proved difficult, he was frustrated. Anger, desperation, frustration...the emotions of life with his son. Sometimes he wondered how other men managed, because he sure didn't feel like he'd gotten this fatherhood thing right much of the time.

"Just, go eat some lunch or something," Shawn said dismissively. His eyes had been wandering around the room through their entire discussion as if he was avoiding his father's intent gaze. "I'm sure Gus has some 'real' work to do, too."

Gus grimaced and Henry rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll check in to find out when your court time is," said Henry, then he licked his lips and lowered his voice. "Tonight we'll talk about this. We'll figure it out."

Shawn drew in a deep breath and nodded. His eyes narrowed but seemed to be focused on something over Henry's shoulder. "Sure, dad. We'll do that."

"Shawn..."

"It's okay. I can handle this," said Shawn finally looking Henry in the eye. His expression was tinged with sadness and what Henry thought might be embarrassment. "I'll see you later."

"Hang in there, Shawn. Once you're out, we're going to rock this. You know it," said Gus with a look of determination as he held out his fist.

"You know that's right," Shawn quipped half-heartedly, bumping fists with his friend.

Henry could feel his son's discomfort and desire to escape, but he grabbed him and pulled him in for a quick hug anyway. Sometimes they both needed to fight through the forces within their personalities that pushed them away from each other. It was necessary, and it was worth it.

Shawn nodded at Henry as they pulled apart. "Thanks, dad," he said warmly. He gave them a small wave as he was led into the holding cells.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn paced his cell. Four steps width, five length. The drunk guy next door kept flashing him dirty looks over his shoulder as he tried to sleep it off on the squeaky cot. Shawn paced and thought, his mind filled with images that weren't the crappy amenities of the fine Santa Barbara jail cell. Juliet lying on the ground, the envelope flopping onto his foot, the dart board on the wall of the Psych office that he'd been staring at when he'd been talking to the mysterious caller. He was thinking of calling the guy Bullseye. Or maybe just Bull, because the whole situation was turning into a giant load of...he sighed and shook himself as he paced. The drunk next door grumbled. He saw the smudge outside of the office again. Printer ink. And he thought back to the previous night.

After Gus had left him, he'd taken his bike to Hammond's neighborhood. It was late and quiet. He'd felt like a burglar as he'd stalked around Hammond's house, hoping that a neighbor wouldn't happen to look out and see him. At the time, he'd thought about how bad it would be to get arrested for burglary of the suspect's home when he was supposed to have been investigating him through psychic means. A thin, mirthless laugh escaped him as his chest tightened from frustration.

"Hey, buddy, stop makin' s'much noise already," groused the drunk.

"Stick your fingers in your ears," suggested Shawn rudely.

"Ahhh, phooey," said the drunk as he rolled over and stuck his fingers in his ears.

Shawn paced. He ran through all of the images of the previous night. He'd found footprints in the dirt near one of Hammond's windows. He'd risked his penlight and had found the same dark substance in the footprint as he'd found outside of the office. After another quick circuit of the house he'd gone back to the Psych office to examine the sidewalk smudge, but it had been mostly worn away by that point. Then he'd gone into the office to do more research, but he'd ended up falling asleep at his desk until the tall, blond Officer Baker had come along to ruin the day.

He sighed and put his hands on his head, trying to re-focus his thoughts. So whoever had robbed Hammond's house had then gone to Psych and dropped off the loot. A slick set-up. The same guy most likely lifted his phone at dinner and planted it in the house, also. So, a professional job, but who had hired the guy? Someone was behind the whole operation. Who? One of Hammond's enemies? He still felt like the guy was too small-time to have enemies like this. Who else would have something to gain, though? He paced. He let his mind wander. His mind went back to the discussion with his father in the booking area, for some reason. Stupid mind, he thought. He disappointed his dad enough without being framed for burglary so effectively. Henry said he believed his story. He probably did. Still, it was him, in the jail under arrest, with his dad watching. Never a good time.

He sighed and let his mind flood with random images. The talk with his dad stayed in the forefront. He'd been looking around the room, avoiding his dad's eyes. He'd seen Baker waiting impatiently and had been able to maintain the slight bit of amusement about the tall blond California police officer having the same name as the character from _CHiPs_. He'd seen the chief at the top of the steps leading Hammond from her office to a detective's desk, supposedly to take his statement. At one point, during the hug with his dad he realized, he'd noticed a bug-eyed old man shuffling to the bathroom with his walker. There was a little oxygen tank on a strap slung over his shoulder with its clear tube snaking up to his nose. He remembered it clearly because the man had shot them a curiously venomous look.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he kept pacing, sorting through all of the images he'd soaked up during that short discussion with his father. Something was niggling at the back of his mind and he was determined to figure it out. He remembered that he had even scanned the floor in his most desperate moments. The floor, with a detritus of dust bunnies and coffee-drip stains and footprints and gum wrappers and...a particularly dark footprint. Actually, a whole set of them. He stopped pacing. Near the records room, he'd noticed a darker, smudgy spot on the floor, like someone had spilled toner and had tried to clean it up hastily. The spot had foot-shaped marks next to it. The foot had apparently stepped in the spilled printer toner and had walked out the back door of the station. The same guy had been in the station. In the records room. But what records had he been searching in the police station of all places? And why?

"Holy crap," he hissed. The drunk guy had apparently fallen asleep finally as no protests erupted from his cell.

Was this an inside job? He shook his head, wondering how many bad cops there could be in the moderately-sized department. An infiltrator? What the hell was going on? He rubbed his face as he sank onto the cot and wished he could just be the drunk guy sleeping it off.

**OoOoOoO**

Morton shuffled up to the bench, letting the walker bang into the wooden seat. Bob looked up and tensed, sensing the old man's sudden mood change. Actually, he'd been feeling an undercurrent of tension all morning. Since he'd picked up his friend, he'd noticed an agitation that Morton hadn't been able to totally hide. They'd been enjoying themselves, watching the scene at the station and the cops running around in confusion. Still, Morton had been edgy. And now, whatever had been causing that edginess had apparently come to the fore.

"You okay?" asked Bob.

Morton scowled and shook his head. Something had spoiled the old man's fun, but they couldn't discuss it out loud. Bob felt a sinking feeling of regret at the change. He'd been having fun as well. They'd been snickering at the skinny detective who looked like something the cat had dragged into the station. And then when his lady Chief had gotten on his case, they'd almost had to leave for their stifled laughing. Bob had to hand it to the guy, though. He'd shown up for work the day after being blown up, apparently still wearing the same clothes. He'd probably come in straight from the hospital. It showed gumption, but plenty of cops had gumption. It didn't make it good gumption. They'd gotten a kick out of how frustrated and confused the skinny detective and all of the other officers looked. They had no clue who'd gotten to them, and it was beautiful. But now, the bubble had burst for some reason. Morton was glaring and fidgeting impatiently.

"You ready to leave then?" asked Bob as he started to stand up.

Voices sounded behind them and Morton maneuvered himself around to sit again. Bob settled back in his seat, curious about what was happening. The two men they'd seen earlier walked up to the reception desk nearby, talking intently. It was the older man and the black guy who was the partner of the psychic. He'd gotten the sense that the older guy might be the psychic's father. Morton glared at their backs as they spoke to the receptionist and then continued their own whispered conversation. Bob looked back and forth from them to his friend and had the sudden feeling that their operation wasn't quite over yet. The older guy spoke for a few moments with the officer behind the desk, and the black kid turned and cast an eye their direction. Bob donned his most senile look and gazed around the room vaguely. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Morton was just poking at his oxygen tank, keeping his eyes down. Finally the two men left and Bob looked a question at Morton who just jerked his head towards the door. They stood up to leave.

"Did you gentlemen still want to speak to someone about your complaint?" asked the officer behind the reception desk.

"No, thank you," said Bob. "We need to get back now. If those kids come by again, we'll call."

"Okay, then. Have a nice day."

Bob followed the old man who was already out the doors. After they climbed into the big sedan, Bob turned to Morton. "Something's up," he said simply.

Morton grimaced and said, "Just take me home."

"Everything's still going as planned," said Bob, wondering if Morton was just worrying about details of the operation. "I sent that girl the message. We're on track."

Morton shrugged and picked at a piece of lint on his shirt. "Fine. That's fine. This is just...I want to call Sinclair in again."

"Why?"

The old man scowled more deeply. "Hard to explain, Bob. I just saw that idiot psychic kid and his father talking and it got me worked up. You know what I was talking about the other day...fathers and sons," he said, then trailed off, frowning out the window as Bob pulled the car out of the parking lot. After a few more moments of silence the old man said the words Bob had been fearing. "I talked to Maxwell last night."

Bob took a deep breath and sighed. Morton and his son Maxwell had always had a tortured relationship. Maxwell had been his mother's shining star, and Bob knew that Morton had always resented their closeness. It was a special thing for a man to have a son, and when the son was closer to the mother instead it could provide a special sort of pain for the father. At least, that was always the case for his friend. He'd been hard on his son, training him and trying to make him tough, but Maxwell had never lived up to Morton's high standards. Bob wondered what his friend had seen between the psychic and his father. Whatever it had been had thrown salt on an old wound. And if Morton had spoken with Maxwell, and it had gone as Bob suspected, the wound though old had already been reopened, making it all the more painful.

Morton wasn't one to take pain kindly, no matter how inadvertently it was caused by this psychic kid and his father. If he was determined to call in Sinclair once more, it meant that Morton wasn't satisfied with just messing with the kid's business and discrediting him in order to torpedo the case against Maxwell. It meant that the kid was well and truly in for it now. The crosshairs of Morton's anger with his own son had come to settle on this Spencer kid and most likely anyone near him.

"So it's 'cry havoc' then?" asked Bob, mind racing to come up with plans to shield Morton from any backfires.

The old man nodded and turned his stone-cold gaze to Bob. "'Let slip the dogs of war,'" he said, finishing the quote and loosing any reins they'd had on the operation.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter heard voices and opened his eyes, realizing much too slowly that he'd fallen asleep in the chair. He blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs in his brain. He saw one nurse just leaving the room and another one still hovering over his partner.

"I'm sorry, detective," said the nurse standing next to Juliet's bed. "We didn't mean to wake you."

"I didn't mean to sleep," he mumbled as he sat up and grimaced at his numerous aches and pains.

"Looks like you need it," she said over her shoulder as she checked over Juliet and marked off items on her clipboard.

Lassiter frowned, knowing he couldn't really argue with her on that point. "How is she?"

"I'm sorry, there's no change. It takes time," she said with a sympathetic look as she turned to leave the room.

Lassiter let his head fall back again and gazed at Juliet's still form, hating the breathing apparatus and all of the other tubes sticking out of her. He'd been sitting with her since getting his official release. Earlier, he'd been able to convince Buzz to swing by his place after they'd left the station so he could grab a quick shower and a change of clothes. Then he'd gotten checked by his doctor at the hospital. The doctor had cleared him for release with the stipulation that he went home and rested for at least a day, preferably two. He had, of course, promptly ignored that stipulation. Instead, he'd forced himself to eat a sandwich in the cafeteria, because he knew he needed food even though he had no appetite, and then he'd settled himself, finally, into Juliet's room.

After speaking about mundane things for a few minutes in an attempt to do something even remotely useful for her, he'd given up and flopped into the sleeper-chair near the windows and had apparently fallen asleep. He checked his watch and saw that it was already the dinner hour, even later than he'd realized. He'd slept over four hours. He sighed and rubbed absently at his right ear. He took a deep breath and felt his eyes becoming heavy again when the sound of voices flared up from the other side of the door. He sat up and turned his left ear to the sounds with the sinking feeling that he recognized at least one of the voices. Then the door opened again.

The nurse he'd spoken with walked in and said quietly, "Detective, there are some men outside who want to see you. I can't allow them all in here."

He sighed again and stood up. "Okay. Thank you," he said as he walked out of the room to find his worst nightmare waiting for him. Both Spencers and Guster. He hoped that maybe he'd fallen asleep after all and was just dreaming.

"Lassie," said Shawn. "You still look like crap."

"Aren't you supposed to be in jail?"

Shawn shrugged and crossed his arms, one finger pointing at Gus on his left side and the other pointing at Henry on his right side. "Blame them."

"Gladly," said Lassiter, scowling at all three of them as he felt the perpetual headache he'd been suffering since the explosion threatening to become worse.

"Will you two shut the hell up?" hissed Henry. "We've got more important things to talk about here."

"Gentlemen, you need to move this conversation elsewhere," said the nurse sternly as she came to stand beside Lassiter.

"Sorry, ma'am," said Gus.

"I want to see Juliet," said Shawn quietly.

Lassiter realized he was standing in front of the door as if guarding it. He gave the nurse a slight nod and took a step away.

"Just two minutes," she told Shawn.

After Shawn had entered the room, Lassiter jerked his head to the side indicating Henry and Gus to follow. They moved down the hallway away from any room doors.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Henry crossed his arms and glanced around before looking at Lassiter. "There's something big going on here. We need to put our heads together to figure it out. All of us," he said with a note of warning in his voice.

Lassiter's hackles raised at the idea that Henry was trying to tell him what to do, but he took a deep breath and considered his words before replying. The man irritated him much the same way his son did, but Lassiter had actual respect for him, too, because of his service and his skills. He'd never been able to figure out the crazy relationship Henry had with his son, but then he'd never felt that he could really judge it either, considering his own screwed-up paternal dynamic. In any case, he realized that Henry was right. The explosion and Shawn's arrest...the situation wasn't like their usual investigations where he could afford to get into sniping contests with Shawn. This was a whole different animal, and it was apparently stalking them all.

"Okay," he said nodding. "I agree."

"We should go to my place," said Henry. "We can talk it all out, no interruptions. I can give you a ride Lassiter. You don't have a car here, right?"

Lassiter grimaced and just nodded again. He wasn't doing any good sitting in Juliet's room, as much as he wanted to continue doing so. He couldn't really go back to the station again. The chief would have his head if he showed up, and he hadn't been able to dig anything out of the files and mug shots like he'd hoped. And, as much as it pained him to admit it, Henry and Shawn had a knack for sniffing out details and putting together seemingly random items that sometimes broke cases wide open.

"Maybe we can pick up some food on the way," said Gus. Henry and Lassiter just looked at him. "What? I haven't had any dinner yet."

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn stood next to Juliet's bed and wiped a hand across his eyes, sniffing loudly. Seeing her surrounded by machines and with the breathing tubes and other paraphernalia was almost as hard as seeing her lying bloodied on the ground.

"I'm so sorry, Jules," he whispered. Then he tried to pull himself together. Blubbering at her wouldn't solve anything. He swallowed thickly. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I know you know that. You of all people." He touched a bare part of her arm lightly with his fingers. "There's someone out there who wanted to hurt us. I think he wanted to hurt all of us, at least in some way. But we're on to him now. Or we will be, once we can compare notes and hash this out. Combine all of our powers for good. That kind of thing. We're totally going to pull a _Super Friends_ on this guy's ass. Dad's Superman. Lassie's Aquaman because he's all wet. Gus and I are Batman and Robin, of course. And we need our Wonder Woman. So you gotta get better."

He found his throat close up suddenly as his eyes stung. He just looked at her for another minute, listening to the hiss of the breathing machine and the soft beeps of the monitors.

"Stay with us, Juliet," he said softly. "God knows Lassie needs you." He paused and put his hand over his mouth, wondering briefly why it was so hard to say even now. He swallowed and lowered his hand. "And I need you."

The door opened and he flinched, then he turned to nod at the nurse peering at him. He held up a finger and turned back to Juliet.

"We have to go do battle with evil now," he said quietly, hoping the nurse wasn't listening but not really caring. "I know you don't want to miss out on all the fun, so wake up soon. Please." He brushed his fingers along her arm again quickly and then turned and left the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Shawn paced back and forth in his dad's kitchen as Gus snagged the last slice of pizza. Henry was sitting in his chair with a beer he'd hardly been drinking and a faraway look in his eyes. Lassiter was slouched on the sofa, head back and looking like he was half asleep.

"There's got to be more than this," said Shawn, thoughts and images racing through his brain faster than he could follow.

"Of course there is," said Henry. "But we don't have enough of the pieces yet."

"We've got descriptions of two men," said Lassiter. "It's not great, but it's a start. We can go back to the station..."

"You've already tried that with the homeless guy," said Shawn. "You didn't get anywhere."

"Hitman," growled Lassiter. "Maybe I just didn't get through all of the mug shots, Spencer. And I didn't try looking for the fake custodian yet."

"Hitman, homeless, what does it matter when we have no idea why the hell he's doing this? Or they, them, whatever. What do they want?"

"Could he just be some kind of psycho killer?" suggested Gus. "Someone who wants to mess with us?"

They were silent for a few moments with thoughts of another such psycho who'd stalked them all in the forefront of their minds. Henry shook his head at the same time as Shawn.

"No, if it was Yin or a whack-job like Yin they would've taunted us. Those maniacs do this kind of thing for attention and recognition," said Shawn. "These guys are acting more like Lassie's idea of a hitman, hitting hard and then disappearing again."

Henry and Lassiter nodded. Henry's faraway gaze sharpened for a moment, then, as if a light had come on for him. Shawn was about to ask what he was thinking when Gus's phone jingled for a text.

He glanced at it and then gave Shawn a look of shock. "Shawn," he said worriedly as he handed his phone over.

Shawn looked at the text and felt his stomach drop. It was from Charlotte Rey and it said, "Can't reach Shawn. Not going to testify. They hurt those cops. They texted me about it. I'm going away. Tell Shawn thanks for trying."

He swallowed thickly and said, "I think we just got one of our missing pieces."

Henry and Lassiter both stood up to join him, reading the text over his shoulder. Lassiter's jaw dropped. He put his hands on his face as he took a few steps away and paced back and forth behind the couch.

"That's our case against Francis!" he finally hissed. His face started to redden as his anger grew. "That was our WHOLE CASE!" He turned and glared blue fire at Shawn.

"Take it easy, man," said Shawn, feeling the heat of Lassie's anger as much as he had earlier in the interrogation room. "This is a good thing. Well, good being a relative term, of course."

"GOOD?" yelled Lassiter. "How in the world can you possibly describe this as good?"

Henry stepped between the two of them even though there was now a couch between them. "Lassiter, just calm down for a minute. He means it's good because now we have a reason why this has been happening. The fake custodian must've raided the police files to find out the case you all were working currently, which was the Hammond case. It fits. And then he stole Shawn's phone and Hammond's records to set Shawn up for burglary."

Lassiter squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands on his hips, head dropping down in despair. "Sonofabitch," he mumbled. He turned and sat on the back of the couch and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Henry said, "So, we knew we had two guys working this, and now we know their roles: the set-up specialist and the hitman. I'd bet the farm that there's someone who hired them both."

"This is happening because of the Francis case?" asked Gus. "Not the Hammond case?"

"Right. They hit Lassie and Jules to intimidate Charlotte, but they did it through the Hammond case to make it harder to figure out," said Shawn.

"Not just that," said Henry. "They also discredited the consultants who had worked on both cases. That way, even if the witness hadn't been scared off, Francis's lawyers could've undermined the case enough to win it."

Shawn and Gus exchanged a look of horrified awe. "Wow," said Shawn.

"Who does that?" breathed Gus.

"I'll tell you who," said Henry, then he turned and walked out of the room.

Shawn and Gus and Lassiter all looked at each other in confusion.

"That's funny," said Shawn. "I didn't think he was old enough to be senile yet."

Gus punched Shawn in the arm. Lassiter walked over to stand by Shawn and Gus as Henry returned from his room.

"Here," he said, holding out a thick file folder.

Shawn grabbed it away from Lassiter's reach and opened it. He found that it was actually a folder filled with a lot of other folders. He flipped through a few of them and then looked at his father. "The mob? Really? You think the Sopranos of Santa Barbara are behind this?"

Gus's look of horror increased as Lassiter grabbed the file from Shawn.

"There are a lot of similarities," said Henry. "Those are just files on the cases I worked that had some kind of mob connection. I don't know that whoever's doing this is in there, but I thought it couldn't hurt to check." He raised his eyebrows and gave Shawn a significant look that Shawn wasn't sure he understood.

"What do you mean similarities," asked Lassiter as he scanned the files, flipping through them impatiently. "We've never had any suspicions of Francis having a mob connection. Crooked as hell, sure, but not mob."

Shawn grabbed the files back from Lassiter and scanned them more thoroughly, ignoring Lassie's glare. Then he saw it. He looked up at his dad with wide eyes. Henry just nodded at him.

"Alright," said Lassiter, not missing the exchange. "What the hell is going on?"

Henry glanced briefly at Lassiter and just shrugged. Shawn hastily flipped through the files some more and then stopped on another page, scanning it with a growing sense of concern. He flipped the files shut and shoved the stack at Henry who barely grasped it before it spilled across the floor.

"We have to go. Come on, Gus," said Shawn as he started towards the kitchen door.

"Wait, what?" asked Gus as he started to follow Shawn.

"Where are you going, Spencer?" growled Lassiter.

"Ask dad. Come on, Gus. We'll be back in a few minutes," he said as he ran outside towards the Blueberry.

"Shawn! What are you doing?" puffed Gus as he jumped into the driver's seat. Shawn was already buckled in.

"Dad's file, Gus. One of the methods mentioned was how they like to get rid of any paper trails, either stealing the documents or destroying them somehow. I want to grab our files from the office before they can get to them," said Shawn. When Gus didn't move to start the car, Shawn looked at him. "What? Let's go!"

"What else was in that file, Shawn?" asked Gus as he started the car and pulled away from the house.

Shawn grimaced. "There was mention of the anonymous envelope and phone call tactic. That's what dad remembered first, I think, to get him thinking of a mob connection. Then Charlotte's text pretty much confirmed it."

Gus sighed. "Okay, but if they might be coming after our documents, isn't this kind of a bad idea?"

"Uh, no," said Shawn, donning an innocent look. "They can't work this fast. I don't think." He avoided his friend's eyes and just hoped that he wasn't wrong.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter turned his glare on Henry after Shawn and Gus ran out of the house. Henry raised his eyebrows at him and then turned to go into the kitchen, retrieving another beer from the refrigerator.

"You want one?" asked Henry.

"I'm on meds, remember? And where are those two going?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure they're going to get all of the information they have on the Francis case from the Psych office before anything, you know, happens to it," said Henry with a shrug.

Lassiter's brow furrowed. "And you're just letting them go? Don't you usually warn them away from dangerous things?"

"Yeah, and you've seen how well that works," said Henry with a grimace. Lassiter tilted his head in wry acknowledgment. "But I don't really think there's any more danger. From the experience I've had, if this is even mob-related at all, the deeds have all been done. I imagine whoever set the bomb is already kicking back with a beer at home."

Lassiter's face reddened at the thought. "When I find the bastard, he's going to have to drink his beer through a straw," mumbled Lassiter. But he had to agree with Henry's assessment. Mob hitmen didn't usually stick around after acting. The action was most likely over and they would just have to slog through what evidence they did have to track the raggedy man down. He hated admitting it, but deep down he knew their chances of that were slim.

Henry pursed his lips and nodded. "So anyway, that's why I didn't object to Shawn running off just now."

Lassiter sighed and sat down heavily on the couch, feeling completely like crap and wanting only to sleep. He wished he could still be in Juliet's room dozing on the uncomfortable chair instead of sitting on Henry Spencer's sofa and getting talked around like he was an idiot. He leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead in his hands.

"You two saw something else in those files," said Lassiter. "I saw that look." He raised his head again and met Henry's gaze. "What are you not telling me?"

Henry sighed and flopped down in his chair. "Nothing, Lassiter. It was just something else that Shawn told me about that fits the M.O. That's all. It's not important beyond that," he said, then he took a long drink from his beer, avoiding Lassiter's eyes.

Lassiter squinted and sat back, cursing the soft comfort of the couch for making it harder to concentrate. "Bullshit," he said simply as he let his head fall back and looked at the ceiling.

Henry rolled his eyes and took another swig of beer. "Hey, I thought of something else after that text. Did you say that guy you saw had a scar?"

"Yeah," said Lassiter as he drew a finger across the bridge of his own nose. "Along here, a good couple of inches long."

Henry pursed his lips and thought for a few moments. Lassiter felt his eyes growing heavy and tried to fight the impulse to stretch out on the couch.

"Why don't you get some rest?" suggested Henry. "They won't be back for a little while, and I thought of something else I want to look for in my old files."

"I shouldn't," said Lassiter.

"Actually, you should," said Henry. "If you're going to be any use to us in tracking these guys down, you need to sleep off some of that concussion."

"If I'm going to be any use to you?" said Lassiter as he glared at Henry indignantly.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Are you deaf in both ears?" asked Henry with a smirk. "Seriously, stop being stubborn and catch a nap."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and rubbed at his right ear. "Fine. At least if I can sleep, I won't have to listen to your crap anymore," grumbled Lassiter.

Henry chuckled and went down the hallway to his room. Lassiter stretched out on the couch and sighed at the knots of frustration that started to un-kink in his back and shoulders. The perpetual ache in his head seemed to increase for a moment before it also started to ease off. He was going to need another painkiller soon, but they tended to make his mind fuzzy, so he was hoping he could wean himself off of them. Henry had been right to some extent. He did need to shape up if he was going to be any use in tracking down possible mob enforcers. He blinked at the ceiling for a few minutes and turned his head from side to side. With his left ear he could hear Henry puttering in his room, but with his right ear he could barely make out the sounds. He sighed again and closed his eyes.

**OoOoOoO**

Bob listened to Morton's phone call and tried to squash the nagging feeling of concern that had been bothering him since the police station. He'd been thinking more and more that his friend was taking things too far, but he'd never been one to speak up about such matters. His job was to just support Morton and help him through the tough spots. But, this operation was getting more rough than any he could remember. More personal, when it didn't seem to warrant that kind of reaction. Morton was on a tear, and he showed no signs of easing up.

"When will you be back?" asked Morton. "Okay. Do you want me to go ahead and send out Ferdinand and his cousin? Fantastic."

Bob felt a headache threatening and rubbed at his temples.

"Well, it's all set. He sounded happy to be called back. I think he's enjoying this," said the old man as he hung up the phone. "What's wrong with you?"

Bob looked up, startled. "Um, nothing. Just a headache."

"Well, stop worrying you old nag. And don't deny that you're shook up," he grumbled as he reached for his drink. "I know what I'm doing, Bob."

"Of course, Morton. It just all seems a bit extreme."

"Screw that," groused the old man as he downed his drink in one gulp. "I'm just not holding back. What's the point anymore?"

Bob frowned. "It's not like you to talk that way," said Bob hesitantly. He was coming dangerously close to criticizing his friend, which wasn't a thing he'd ever done.

"Nonsense. I'm not talking about offing myself for Christ's sake! I'm just saying I'm done pussyfooting around. That psychic is going to pay for crossing me, and his father can get a taste of the disappointment I've had to live with," he growled, the cold steely look in his eyes seemed almost alien. After a moment his gaze seemed to readjust back to normal and he looked at Bob with exasperation. "You've gone soft in your old age."

Bob cleared his throat, feeling a shiver run down his spine at Morton's newly changeable personality, but he bit back any more comments. He suspected that the discussion between Morton and Maxwell had gone much worse than he'd anticipated. He didn't want to rile his old friend up again. "So he's on his way back?"

Morton smiled grimly. "Yes. He's bringing his 'friends' too."

"Do you want me to call in Ferdinand now?" asked Bob, swallowing a lump at the image of Sinclair's friends. Maybe he really was going soft in his old age.

"Right away. We've got our own work to do before Sinclair gets back."

Bob nodded and pulled out his cell phone.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn grimaced with pain and stretched his arm further, wiggling his fingers and groaning at the effort. Finally, his fingertips touched the paper and after a few more wiggles he was able to get a grip on the file.

"Gah!" he exclaimed as he sat back and held up the file triumphantly. "See, Gus. I told you I could get it."

"You also could've just moved the chair, Shawn. It's really not that impressive that your arm reached all the way under it," said Gus with a frown as he put another folder onto the small pile they'd managed to gather.

"But, if the chair was bolted to the floor, I've proved that I could reach something under it," said Shawn.

"It's not bolted to the floor."

"I could be, someday."

"Why would the chair ever be bolted to the floor?"

"Earthquake-proofing?" suggested Shawn.

Gus rolled his eyes. "Is that everything? I'm getting creeped out. Let's just get back to your dad's house."

"Creeped out? Gus, I was joking about the office exploding. Sorta. At least I hope I was. The office isn't going to explode," said Shawn as he flipped through the documents they'd gathered to be sure they had it all.

"I don't care, Shawn. I want to leave," said Gus looking around at their familiar work space as if it held ghosts.

Shawn sighed. "Fine. I think we're good."

There was a sound of screeching tires outside. Shawn met Gus's wide eyes, flashing back to the moment right after the explosion.

"What was that?" hissed Gus.

"Screeching tires," said Shawn. He crouched down and moved towards the window that looked out onto the parking lot, but he didn't see any unfamiliar cars. He did see a shadow though.

Gus crouched down too and grabbed the pile of papers. "But why? Why are the tires screeching?"

Shawn shifted around to get a better angle through the crack in the blinds and felt his stomach go cold as ice. "Um, I think it was the guy who's pouring gasoline on the walls of the office," said Shawn as he watched a man in a black hooded sweatshirt splashing the walls with a red gas can.

"That's not funny, Shawn," said Gus tremulously.

"I know," said Shawn. He looked around and spotted the fire extinguisher by the refrigerator. "Get ready to run to the car, Gus. Get those files safe."

Gus opened his mouth to protest, but he closed it again and just nodded at Shawn's serious look. "Okay. I'll call for help too."

"Yeah, but after you're outside. We have to get out of here. Now."

Shawn hefted the big fire extinguisher and pulled the tab so it was ready to use. Gus tucked the papers under one arm and then grabbed a mini-bat from one of the desks and they moved to the front door.

"Ready?" asked Shawn.

"Yeah."

Shawn pulled the door open and ran outside, brandishing the extinguisher. "Go, go, go!" he hissed at Gus as he started to spin around, brandishing the extinguisher and looking for the hooded man. The guy was nowhere in sight. "What the..."

Gus ran to the blueberry and jumped in. Shawn could see him lock the doors and then pull out his cell phone as he watched out of the windshield. Shawn looked around again and then turned back to Gus, shrugging. Gus's eyes widened. Shawn spun around but something heavy smashed into his hip and he fell backwards, landing heavily on his tailbone and dropping the extinguisher. He looked up to find a shadowy figure standing above him, holding a vodka bottle with a rag hanging out of it in one hand and a lighter in the other.

"Oh crap," said Shawn as he tried to scramble backwards.

"Hey!" yelled Gus.

Shawn craned his neck and saw his friend jump out of the car with the mini-bat in his hand. He started running towards them. The guy lifted the lighter and flicked it on.

"No!" gasped Shawn. He lunged forward and scrambled at the man's legs, trying to reach up for the lighter. The guy kicked out and caught Shawn in the midsection and he fell back with an "Oof."

Gus yelled again, and when he was a few feet away, he threw the mini-bat. It hit the man's arm and the lighter fell to the ground. Shawn saw it and dove, covering it with his body as he tried to get his hands on it. The guy growled and tried to push Shawn off, but as Gus got closer he started to retreat. Shawn looked up and saw him draw back his arm.

"Gus, look out!"

The man threw the bottle just as Gus reached Shawn's side. It hit Gus in the back as he turned and threw his hands over his head. The heavy bottle didn't shatter, but the neck of it impacted at just the right angle to break off so that they were both doused with liquid. Shawn squinted into the darkness as the man ran off around the corner of the building.

"Ow!" hissed Gus.

Shawn sniffed. "You know, I've warned you to lay off the booze."

Gus's face was twisted with pain and disgust at the strong smell, as well as despair as he tried to twist around to see the giant wet spot on his back and all over his pants. "Man, these were my best slacks," he whined.

Shawn held out a hand for help as he picked himself up off of the ground. He looked down at the lighter in his hand, but it was a common Bic with no markings. Too bad it wasn't a nice, custom-made lighter with the name of the guy engraved on it, he thought ruefully. Sometimes criminals made things harder than necessary. Suddenly, he heard running footsteps. His head whipped up to see the hooded man running towards them again with another Molotov cocktail. This time, it was already lit.

"NO!" he screamed as he pushed Gus away from the office and at an angle away from the bad guy's approach.

The man turned towards the building and threw the flaming bottle, but he'd miscalculated slightly and the bottle only shattered against the bottom edge of the wall. Still, flames erupted hungrily, feeding off of the bottle's contents as well as the gas the man had splashed onto the walls. A wave of heat hit Shawn's back as he ducked and ran with Gus for another few steps. When he turned around, he couldn't see the hooded man anymore through the glare of the flames. He looked at Gus who was gazing at the flames with sad horror. Then he looked back at the fire extinguisher on the ground. He ran towards it, hearing Gus's surprised yelp, and silently thanked his friend for insisting on buying the biggest fire extinguisher possible as he hefted it and approached the flames. He aimed and pulled the trigger. Thick foam sprayed from the nozzle as Shawn got as close to the blaze as he could stand.

"Don't get too close!" warned Gus. "Wait, what are you doing? You're not hitting the flames."

"This thing's only so big," yelled Shawn. "I'm just trying contain it as much as I can." He sprayed the foam around the flames and onto the un-ignited gas on the wall. He also doused the grass along the base of the wall. After covering the ground and wall around the flames he swept the foam back and forth over the blaze until the container was empty. The fire wasn't out, but it wasn't as hearty as before. He stepped back to stand next to Gus, and they watched as the outside wall of their office started to blacken through the orange flames.

"That sucks," said Shawn.

"I hear that," said Gus glumly as he stretched his sore back and winced. "Thanks for pushing me away."

"I couldn't have you going up in flame like Michael Jackson's hair, man," said Shawn with a grin. "And thank you for having such awesome aim with that mini-bat. Ninja skills."

Gus smirked. They both heard sirens in the distance. "I'm going to be on a first-name basis with 911 at this rate," said Gus.

Shawn nodded, but then an image from his dad's files flashed into his mind and his breath caught.

"Give me your phone," he said, the urgency in his voice catching Gus's attention.

"What is it? Help's on the way."

"Help for us," said Shawn as he dialed and put the phone to his ear. "But sometimes they hit more than one target at a time."

Gus blinked in confusion which changed to horror as realization dawned. "Your dad's?"

Shawn nodded and started to pace anxiously as the emergency vehicles arrived.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Lassiter felt like his sunglasses had grown too tight, but he didn't want to take them off because the sun was so blinding. It was almost flashing, and hot as an oven. It felt like an explosion. But why had his glasses shrunk? Or maybe his helmet was too tight. He reached up to adjust it when he heard oddly muffled noises and something that sounded like a bell. He blinked and looked around, feeling the helmet on his head tightening as he noticed a walking pile of rags. The rags turned to him and he saw the face again, the smile, the gesture as the man pointed his finger-gun at him and fired. He felt the impact on his shoulder. His eyes flew open and he gasped, arms flailing for a moment before he realized he'd been dreaming.

"There's someone outside," hissed Henry who took his hand off of Lassiter's shoulder and moved away from the couch. He squatted down to look out the window, shifting to see out at different angles.

"What's happening?" whispered Lassiter. His heart was hammering, and it felt like it was trying to crawl up his throat.

"Shawn called. Someone set Psych on fire. He thinks they're going to hit us, too."

Lassiter blinked, still reeling from the odd dream and the rude awakening. He realized that the tight sunglasses and helmet in the dream had been his headache because it was pounding at him furiously, now. His scalp felt like it was two sizes too small for his skull. Maybe he'd wait for another day before the whole weaning off of the painkillers idea. He sat up and cradled his head in his hands as he tried to make sense of what Henry had said.

"You saw someone?" he asked.

"I heard a car."

"But you didn't see anyone?"

Henry turned to him for a moment looking exasperated. "Did you hear me say they set Psych on fire?"

"Yes, I heard you, dammit," hissed Lassiter. "I'm just trying to get details."

There was a banging noise from outside, as if something had been knocked over. Lassiter and Henry exchanged a look.

"Do you have your gun?" asked Lassiter.

Henry pursed his lips and then said, "In my room. I can get it."

"Do that," said Lassiter. He reached down and pulled his backup gun out of the ankle holster he'd strapped on when Buzz had taken him home earlier.

"I didn't know you used an ankle holster," said Henry as he turned back to the window for a moment before heading to his room.

"I don't, usually, but it was the easiest thing I could grab today when I went home to change."

"And it was the most inconspicuous thing for an injured detective to wear in the hospital?" asked Henry as he disappeared down the hallway.

Lassiter made a face as he checked his weapon. "Spencers, always so damned smart," he grumbled to himself.

Henry reappeared with his weapon. "I heard splashing."

Lassiter's brow furrowed. "Gas?"

"Yeah, gas lit with a Molotov cocktail is what Shawn said."

Lassiter wrinkled his nose. "That's messy. How many men?"

"Shawn said there was just one guy at Psych, unless there was a getaway driver that they never saw."

"Just one?" said Lassiter standing up slowly in an attempt to avoid any waves of dizziness. He was mostly successful. "What are we waiting for then?"

"Well, I thought it might be nice to figure out where the guy is," said Henry testily.

"You heard splashing," snapped Lassiter, not feeling like being subjected to sarcasm when there was someone dousing the building with a flammable liquid.

Henry sighed. "Let's go out the front door," he said. "I'll go right." They moved to the door and crouched down. Henry put his hand on the handle but then he paused and turned back to Lassiter. "Actually, you go right. I'll go left."

Lassiter felt a surge of irritation and was about to ask what the difference would be, but then he realized his right ear would be up against the house wall so his left ear would be favored. "Fine," he said grimly.

They moved out of the house and listened for a moment but heard nothing. At least, Lassiter couldn't hear anything. He looked at Henry who gave him a shrug and then a nod. They moved down the porch steps and turned away from each other to start the circuit around the house, guns raised. Lassiter felt his head pounding in sync with his heart again and hoped that he didn't suffer another dizzy spell like the one at the station. He reached the corner of the front porch and leaned his head around to look at the side of the house. There were no shadowy figures in sight. He glanced around at the yard and surrounding area but detected no motion. He thought about turning back to follow Henry, but he decided to stick with the plan. The guy could be on the opposite side of the house and heading to his side at any moment. So he eased around the corner and started along the wall, staying low and watching alertly for any hint of movement, straining to listen for any hint of noise. After three or four steps, he heard a loud yell and flinched with surprise. It had come from the other side of the house, and it had sounded like Henry.

Lassiter turned back and ran full tilt around the front porch. The strange thought flashed through his mind about how bad he would feel facing Shawn if Henry had been hurt or killed. The thought was washed away, thankfully, as his concentration focused again. He reached the far front corner of the house and decided to keep running instead of slowing down to survey the scene. He could hear Henry cursing and yelling with pain and figured speed was of the essence. As he barreled around the corner, gun raised, he collided with what felt like a solid mass of shadow. But when the shadow released a gasp of surprise and pain, he knew it was the attacker. The force of the collision knocked them both to the ground. Lassiter landed on his rear but his upper body managed to stay upright. The other man had been looking backwards, so he'd twisted after the impact and had landed in a heap on his side. He was holding a red plastic gas container, and some of its contents had splashed out over both of them.

"Freeze!" yelled Lassiter as he brought his gun to bear on the man while he tried to get to his feet.

"Don't shoot!" yelled Henry somewhere off to Lassiter's left now, near the side of the house.

Lassiter knew Henry was warning him against igniting the gasoline, but he'd mostly yelled the order out of habit. He figured the attacker couldn't know that he wouldn't shoot. But when Henry yelled out, Lassiter looked in his direction and took his eyes off of the sprawling man for a split second. It was enough time for the man to roll to a knee and gain leverage to heave the half-filled gas container at Lassiter's head before scrambling to his feet. Lassiter dove to the side, avoiding the worst of the blow as the container thumped against his back, splashing him some more in the process.

"Sonofabitch," he hissed as he pushed himself to his feet.

The man had regained his footing and was starting to run away. Lassiter switched his gun from one hand to the other and leaned over so he could snatch the container from the ground, then he heaved it at the retreating figure. It caught him in the back of the legs and he fell hard on his face. Lassiter sprinted over to him and put one knee on the man's back as he grabbed his arms. Then he remembered that he didn't have any handcuffs.

"Damn it," he growled. The man squirmed and he pulled at his arms. "Sit still, asshole."

He looked over his shoulder towards the house, wondering if Henry had any handcuffs inside. Then he saw the elder Spencer on his hands and knees with his head hanging down. He looked like he was trying to crawl, but he held one hand out, waving in front of him, as if he couldn't see.

"Henry? Are you okay?"

"No! Lots of gas, in my eyes," he gasped, voice soaked with pain. "Need the garden hose." Lassiter wasn't sure what he meant for a moment, but then he realized he wanted to flush the gasoline from his eyes with water.

"I'll help you. I just need to secure this guy," he said as he gazed around desperately for a moment.

An idea came to him, and with a sense of relief, he started to unfasten his belt. He managed to pull his belt off with one hand while holding the man's wrists with the other, then he tied the man's hands behind his back. It wasn't ideal, but at least the guy would have to work at it for a while before he could get free again. He stood up and pulled the attacker to his feet, shoving him over to the house. When they were close to Henry, Lassiter kicked the back of the man's knees and pushed him to the ground.

"On your stomach," he ordered.

The man seemed to have lost his fight, but Lassiter wasn't going to count on that. When he was on the ground again, Lassiter felt at the man's waist and found that he was also wearing a belt. With some maneuvering he got the belt off and tied it around the man's ankles. All the while, he was able to see that Henry had managed to crawl to the house and had found his garden hose. He'd pulled it off of its holder and was trying to get the water turned on when Lassiter finished securing the attacker.

"Okay, Henry. Hang on. I can help now," he said as he ran to Henry's side.

Henry groaned, eyes squeezed shut and a grimace contorting his face as he sat back on his heels. "You caught the guy?" he asked.

"Yeah, I got him" said Lassiter as he adjusted the flow of water to a decent rate.

"Good man."

"Here's the water," said Lassiter as he held the hose over Henry's head.

Henry rubbed at his face to scrub away the gasoline and then leaned his head back so the water would run into his eyes better, blinking furiously and spitting curses through the flowing water. "Burns like a sonofabitch," he garbled.

Lassiter kept one eye on the bound man as he started to realize that his adrenaline burst was wearing off. His headache returned with a vengeance, and he felt like his legs were going to give out. Sirens sounded in the distance.

"Cavalry's coming," sputtered Henry as he moved his head from side to side and used his fingers to hold open his eyes under the flow. "Did you call?"

"No, never had time," said Lassiter. "Shawn must've sent them our way."

"Smart kid," said Henry.

Lassiter felt the ground tilt for a moment and thought about turning the hose onto himself. "Can you hold this for a second," he said instead. Henry reached up for the hose as Lassiter lowered himself to sit on the ground.

"You okay?" asked Henry.

"Yeah, I just had to sit. I can take that again," said Lassiter as he reached out.

"I got it. Just take it easy."

"Can you see?"

Henry gave a small shrug. "Sorta."

There was a stretch of silence marred only by the sound of splashing water and the shifting of the attacker as he turned his head to look at Lassiter and Henry. Lassiter returned his look with a glare and felt a sudden flash of recognition. The man moved his face away from them again. Lassiter watched Henry as he kept the water flowing over his eyes. The image of the See No Evil, Hear No Evil monkeys flashed through his brain and he sighed.

"Thanks, Lassiter," said Henry.

Lassiter blinked with surprise and discomfort. "Uh, sure, Spencer. No problem."

Henry snorted and then tried to cover it up by clearing his throat. A police cruiser pulled up to the house, and Buzz McNab jumped out.

"Mr. Spencer?" he yelled as he half-jogged into the front yard.

Lassiter stood up and stepped away from the house so Buzz could see him easier. "Over here, McNab! Get an ambulance, pronto!"

"Yes, sir! It's right behind us. Shawn said to bring ambulance and fire."

"We got him before the fire part," said Lassiter pointing at the attacker as Buzz reached them. "But he did spread a lot of gasoline around, so they can deal with that. Get this guy in cuffs. I didn't have any."

Buzz knelt down and removed the belt before putting on the cuffs. "Are you two okay?" he asked.

"Gas in my eyes," muttered Henry. "How's Shawn and Gus?"

"I didn't see them, sir. I was routed to here before I got to Psych, but I think they're okay."

Lassiter stood and watched Buzz put cuffs on the prisoner and remove the belt from his ankles. He was oddly floaty. The sound of water from the hose made him think of a fountain, and he felt suffused by a strange sense of contentment. But then he thought about the attacks again, now that he could focus and had time to think straight. He remembered what Henry had said earlier about feeling that Shawn and Gus were in no danger going to Psych alone. He'd been wrong. Whoever was doing this, mob or not, was obviously not done. The guy that Buzz was picking up off of the ground was an operative, and Lassiter was pretty sure now that it was the same guy who'd posed as a custodian at the station the other morning. But this guy was most likely not the mastermind of the attacks. If it was mob-related, and their goals had been reached, why had they hit again? Who used mob tactics but otherwise didn't follow mob patterns? He lowered his head and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a sharp pain running from his right ear and poking at the backs of his eyes. What did this guy want? He'd bloodied them all now, Shawn, Gus, even Henry...himself...Juliet. His head whipped up.

"Detective?" said Buzz "Are you okay? I was asking you about coming to the station."

Two other uniformed officers had arrived and were leading the prisoner to their cruiser. Two EMTs were kneeling at Henry's side A fire truck was pulled up near the house. Lassiter didn't remember any of them arriving, and now he didn't care.

"Give me your keys," said Lassiter, staring blankly into the distance as horrifying images and possibilities flooded his mind.

"Sir?"

"My car's not here," he hissed. "Give me your keys and get a unit to the hospital. O'Hara's room."

He grabbed the keys after Buzz managed to get them out of his pocket and sprinted to the cruiser, ignoring the surprised questions being yelled at his back. His brain had formed an image and everything else was blacked out, like tunnel-vision in his mind. He had to get to Juliet's room.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn and Gus pulled up at the hospital at the same time as Lassiter. While they'd been watching the fire department save their office, Shawn had suffered the sudden fear that the attackers would go after Juliet again as well. He'd grabbed Gus and they'd taken off, ignoring the protests of the uniformed officers who were trying to take their statements. Shawn had to admit he wasn't totally surprised that Lassiter had gotten the same idea, although he was shocked that he'd arrived in a regular squad car. A soon as they'd pulled up to the curb, they all jumped out of their cars and started running for the doors.

"Lassie! They might make another try..."

"I know, Spencer," growled Lassiter as they rushed inside and started running for the elevators. "Stairs." Lassiter veered for the side, obviously not wanting to wait for a ride, but then one of the elevators opened.

Gus jumped forward and caught it before the doors closed, so they all piled inside. Shawn punched the number 5 for Juliet's floor, feeling like he'd jammed his finger afterwards from hitting the button so hard. He turned to start pacing the small space and almost ran into Lassiter who was already striding the three steps across and back.

"What happened?" he asked, then he sniffed and noticed Gus's nose already wrinkled up from the odor. He focused on Lassiter, the signs of struggle and the damp clothing. "You're drenched in gas. He...where's dad? Did he get the house?" He felt like grabbing Lassie's shirt and shaking him, he needed the information so urgently. "Where's dad!"

"He's okay," said Lassiter, stopping finally to look at Shawn. His expression was haunted though. "Well, the guy splashed gas in his eyes. The EMTs were helping him when I left."

"Dammit!" cried Shawn, barely stopping himself from punching the wall.

"He didn't set fire to the house. We got to him before he could. I think Henry will be okay," said Lassiter with an uncharacteristically consoling tone. "We caught the guy. We're going to get to the bottom of this now."

Shawn drew in a deep breath and nodded. The fact that they'd actually caught at least one of the men involved in the attacks was reassuring. They'd be able to get something out of the guy. Wouldn't they? They'd have to. "Okay. Thanks, man," he said as he stared up at the numbers. They'd reached the fifth floor.

When the doors opened they erupted from the elevator and started to run down the hallway, startling several people along the way. They made enough of a scene to alert the nurses at the station near Juliet's room. The same nurse from earlier stepped into their path as they approached, expression stern.

"What do you think you're doing?" she said when they reached her. Then her nose wrinkled and she looked at all of them. "What happened to you all?"

"We need to check on my partner," said Lassiter.

"No one has been in that room since you left earlier this evening," said the nurse.

"Are you sure?" asked Shawn as he tried to move to the door.

"Sir, please, you can't go in there like that. Have you been drinking?"

"No! Look, it's a long story. Can't we just peek in and check?"

The nurse sighed. "One of you can go in, with me, for a quick check."

Lassiter and Shawn exchanged a look, but Shawn was already moving to the door. Lassiter scowled but then gave Shawn a nod.

"Great. Thank you," he said as he and the nurse went into the room.

He walked close to the bed as the nurse checked all of the readouts and the various tubes and wires on Juliet. She looked the same as earlier, and he felt the same squeeze of pain around his heart.

"Everything looks fine," said the nurse. "Her vitals have been looking better tonight, too. The doctor thinks the swelling has gone down already."

"Great," breathed Shawn. He stared at Juliet for another moment before realizing the nurse was looking at him expectantly. "Oh. Okay. I'll go out again."

When they exited, they found Lassiter talking to a uniformed officer. He turned to them as they came out of the room.

"I'm assigning Officer Chen here to guard O'Hara's room," he said. "Would you please give him a list of people who are authorized to enter?"

The nurse pursed her lips but nodded.

"I'm going to stay for a while myself," said Lassiter.

"You need to get out of those clothes first," said the nurse. "They'll cause irritation, plus they reek. You should shower, too."

Lassiter grimaced. "Can I just borrow some scrubs and shower in her room?"

Shawn grabbed Gus's arm. "Come on, Gus. Let's see if they've brought dad in yet. Lassie, we'll be back later."

Lassiter just waved as they headed back to the elevators.

"How's Juliet?" asked Gus.

"She's fine. I guess we were wrong about them making another attempt."

"Thank god for that," said Gus. He picked at his still-damp shirt and frowned as they got into the elevator. "We need to change."

"I don't want to go home," said Shawn.

"Maybe we can borrow some scrubs too."

"You always loved playing doctor," quipped Shawn as they watched the numbers tick down to the main floor.

"With girls, Shawn. Not with you."

Shawn smirked. "Have you looked around dude? We're in a hospital full of female nurses and doctors."

"Right. Like this is the time to be hitting on women when we're in the middle of explosions and arson attacks," drawled Gus.

"As good a time as...well, actually you're probably right. Not a great time," said Shawn as they left the elevator and headed for the emergency department.

They tracked down Henry after a few minutes and found him in a receiving room waiting for further evaluation. He was dressed in a fresh set of clothes.

"Dad!" said Shawn. "Are you okay?"

Henry was lying on the bed with a compress over his eyes. Shawn felt a pang of guilt twist his insides. He leaned over and gave him a quick hug.

"I'm fine, Shawn," said Henry as he patted his back. "Are you and Gus okay?"

"We're okay, Mr. Spencer."

"I'm so sorry, dad," said Shawn, feeling oddly choked up. He cleared his throat and gave Gus an embarrassed glance.

"What are you sorry for, kid? This isn't your fault. And anyway, Lassiter caught the bastard. The police will get to the bottom of this now."

Shawn realized that Henry had said almost the same thing as Lassiter had earlier and felt a small laugh bubble up unexpectedly. He chalked it up to stress as he stifled the odd reaction. Leave it to two cops to think on the same wavelength, word for word.

"I'm just glad you're okay," said Shawn. "And Lassie said the guy didn't get to set the house on fire, right?"

"Yeah we got to him before he could. How bad is your office?"

"It's not so bad," said Gus. "The fire fighters said that Shawn actually saved it from a lot worse damage. We'll just need to do some repairs to one outside wall."

"Really?"

"Hey, don't sound so surprised. I did train to be a fireman, remember," said Shawn defensively.

Henry snorted. "Yeah, I guess you did. So why did you get here so quick? And Lassiter ran off with Buzz's car. Did you all think they might make another attempt on Juliet?"

"Yeah. She's fine though, and Lassie's got a guard on her door. He's still there, too."

Henry sighed and put his hands on the compress. "Well, that's good."

"Did you shower already?" asked Shawn, having been wondering at Henry's clean clothes.

"Yeah, at the house. They had me get out of the gasoline clothes and wash up so the fumes wouldn't irritate my eyes anymore," said Henry, then he sniffed. "Smells like you two could use a bath yourselves."

"Nah," said Shawn. "This a new cologne we're testing. Eau de Wino."

After a few minutes, Henry's doctor entered and checked him over. He told him he could just take medicine for the pain but should otherwise be okay. He suggested seeing the eye doctor if his vision gave him trouble, then said he was free to go home. While the doctor was in with Henry and Shawn, Gus was able to charm two pairs of scrubs from a nurse.

"Do we need these now?" asked Gus when he found out Henry had been released. "Or are we going home?"

"I don't want to go home," said Shawn.

"Yeah, I don't either, but what are we going to do? Sleep here?"

"Just change," said Henry as he signed some release papers at the ER reception area. "You two smell like the dumpster behind Tom Blair's Pub."

"You're just jealous that we're going to get to wear these," said Shawn brandishing the seafoam green garments. "Do you want Gus to get you some scrubs too?"

"Are you kidding?" said Henry giving Shawn a smirk. His eyes were blazing red which Shawn found inordinately disturbing. "I'd look like an idiot in those things."

"Unlike us," said Shawn, striking a pose.

Henry snorted and sat down in a waiting room chair. He leaned back and put an ice pack they'd given him over his eyes. "Just hurry up."

Shawn and Gus went into a bathroom and changed clothes. When they came out, they found Henry talking to Chief Vick who had arrived in the ER with Lassiter in tow. She'd gone to Juliet's room first to check on her and to get Lassiter's report on the incidents. She looked both frustrated and sympathetic, obviously feeling as confused by the continued attacks as the rest of them. After they were all together, Chief Vick asked for a room they could use and shuffled everyone into a small conference room down the hall.

"Gentlemen," she began after they'd all settled in. Shawn and Gus and Henry sat in chairs as Lassie leaned on a window ledge and the chief remained standing. "I'm sorry that you all had to go through this, tonight. But I'm glad to see that everyone's okay. And I want to commend Henry and Detective Lassiter for catching one of the perpetrators."

Shawn looked at Lassiter, expecting him to puff up his chest proudly as usual whenever he was complimented by the chief, but he was just sitting with his arms tightly crossed, staring at the floor. His behavior made Shawn's own anxiety spike, and he started to chew on a fingernail.

"Now, I'm sure you're all anxious to figure out who's orchestrating these attacks. We all are, of course," she said sincerely. Then her expression changed and she took a deep breath, seeming suddenly reluctant. "But I thought I should remind you that none of you in this room right now are authorized to work on this case."

"Chief, please," said Lassiter. His tone was half-hearted, though, as if he knew arguing would be futile but he felt obligated make the attempt anyway.

"You are still on leave for your injuries, Carlton. Not to mention the conflict of interest issues we're dealing with. And Shawn, I'm sorry, but the investigation into the burglary charges is still underway, so we can't use your services until it's resolved."

Shawn kept chewing his nail and didn't meet the chief's gaze.

"Karen. We think there might be a mob connection to what's going on," said Henry. "We had a meeting earlier and figured out that these attacks, and some of the other things that have happened in this case, fit some patterns of mob tactics."

"Mob?" gasped Chief Vick. "Why would the mob be doing this? Do you think Hammond has a mob connection?"

Shawn cleared his throat. "Um, no. We think Maxwell Francis might have a mob connection," he said grimly, finally looking at the chief. From the corner of his eye he could see Lassiter's face flush red.

The chief's brow furrowed. "I don't follow, Mr. Spencer. What does the Francis case have to do with this?"

"The intern, Charlotte Rey, contacted me," said Shawn, dreading his next words. "Well, she texted Gus because she couldn't reach me because my phone..."

"Get to the point, Shawn," growled Henry.

"Right. Anyway, she said she's not going to testify. She said they sent her a message after Lassie and Jules were attacked, and it scared her. She's leaving town."

Chief Vick put her hands on her face and paced a circle as she digested their news. "Well, hell," she breathed. "So they attacked my detectives as a way to intimidate a witness on a different case?"

They all nodded at her incredulous look.

She sighed and said, "I guess I can see why you think this was the mob. My god. I'm going to have to call the D.A. now." She paced another circle and then slowed down again. "But, if the witness has already bolted, why did they attack you again tonight?"

They all gave her a helpless look. "We haven't figured that one out, Chief," said Shawn. "We came back here because we thought they might come after Juliet again, too."

Lassiter stirred and spoke up. "They only went after Shawn and Henry this time," he said.

They looked at him with varying degrees of surprise and confusion.

"They hit the Psych office and Henry's house. We'd all gone to the house earlier. Maybe they followed us. They probably didn't expect anyone to be at the office," he explained. "But they didn't hit my place or Guster's. Those would've been easy targets. And they didn't try to get to Juliet."

Shawn's stomach did a flop as he realized Lassiter was right. He met Henry's pained look. "They're after us, now," he breathed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Hang on," said Henry, suddenly irritated. His eyes weren't helping his mood. They burned like crazy and kept watering so he had to swipe at them with a tissue. It was pissing him off. "We can't know that for sure. If they followed us, they could've been after Lassiter again, or Gus. We were all at the house. How can you say they were only after me and Shawn?"

Lassiter shrugged. "I'm just saying that I think they only had two targets on their radar tonight, and those targets were your place and Shawn's."

"Psych isn't where Shawn lives," said Henry.

"Do you know where he lives?" asked Lassiter sarcastically.

Henry opened his mouth to retort and then realized that he wasn't 100% sure which dump Shawn had moved into most recently. He changed places so often, he really couldn't say honestly that he knew where his son lived. He growled and leaned his head back to put the mostly-warmed ice pack over his eyes again. "But why would they only be gunning for Shawn now, or even less likely, me and Shawn? It doesn't make sense," he grumbled.

"I have to agree," said Chief Vick, flashing a warning look at Lassiter's indignant expression. "So I'll keep an officer stationed at Detective O'Hara's room, and I'm going to have an officer stay with each of you as well, at least for the next couple of days until we can get to the bottom of this."

Henry looked up at Karen, noticing a small smile on Shawn's face and wondering what the kid could be amused by in this situation. Shawn could find something amusing in the middle of any disaster. He supposed that was a good thing, but mostly it was just incomprehensible to him.

"Chief!" protested Lassiter.

"No arguments, please," she said sternly.

Lassiter pouted and crossed his arms again. "Well, I'm not planning on going home, so you can cancel that unit for tonight anyway. I'll be in Juliet's room."

Karen sighed and looked at Henry. "I know you handled a few cases concerning the mob in your time, Henry. I take it you also think that is what's happening here?"

"I'm the one who gave them the idea," he said. "I saw similar patterns."

"Patterns," said Karen, but Henry didn't offer to elaborate. "Do you think you can identify who's doing this?"

Henry pursed his lips and glanced at Lassiter for a moment. He'd retrieved a photograph from his files earlier, when the detective had fallen asleep on the couch. He'd meant to show him the picture, but then the attack had occurred. "No, not really," he said. "I just recognized the general tactics."

Karen eyed him for a moment as if sensing that he was holding something back, but then she sighed and turned away. "Okay, gentlemen. With the information you've given me, I'm going to call the FBI and see if they know of a connection between Maxwell Francis and the mob. We'll put out a BOLO on Charlotte Rey as well, although she's probably already out of the state by now. I can just imagine what the D.A. is going to say about that," she said glumly.

"Can I at least interrogate the guy we caught tonight, Chief?" asked Lassiter.

"No, I'm sorry. I've got Dobson working on it. If the guy's going to crack, Dobson can do it," said the chief. The "if" in her statement hung heavily in the air. Lassiter frowned darkly but kept quiet.

"Okay, get some rest. Go home, those of you willing to do so," she said with a look at Lassiter. "Don't worry about your safety." She looked at Gus who gave her an embarrassed smile and a small shrug. "Don't try to elude your protectors and go off conducting your own investigation." She looked at Shawn who was chewing a nail and staring into space.

He looked up at her and said, "I would never do such a thing...alone."

The chief just shook her head and walked out of the room, pulling out her cell phone and punching in numbers before she'd cleared the door. Henry sighed and swiped at his watering eyes. He felt tired, but he oddly dreaded going back to the house. Everything was going to smell like gasoline. He kicked himself for overreacting. Don't let the bastards win, he lectured himself.

"I'm pretty sure that guy we caught tonight is the fake custodian," said Lassiter suddenly.

They all stared at him. Henry knew he was angry about not being able to work on the case, but he was still somewhat shocked that he hadn't told Karen this information.

"Dude, really?" hissed Shawn, glancing towards the door as if afraid the chief had heard. "Why didn't you tell her?"

"I will," said Lassiter. "Tomorrow. When I have to go to the station to tell her," he said with a wily expression.

Henry smirked and shook his head. Shawn's grin grew larger as Gus's expression remained confused. "I don't get it," said Gus.

"He's going to the station to tell the chief tomorrow," said Shawn.

"I got THAT part, Shawn," grumbled Gus.

"So, he'll be AT the station, tomorrow, like when that guy's getting interrogated."

Gus's face brightened as realization dawned. "Oh! Okay, I get it."

"And I'll have to give my statement on this guy, and then a description of the hitman, maybe insist on using a sketch artist. Maybe I can talk to the FBI," said Lassiter, squinting at all of the possibilities. His eyes widened at a thought. "Maybe I can insist on using an FBI sketch artist." Shawn grinned at him, obviously enjoying the glimpse into the detective's devious side.

Henry rubbed his forehead and felt the night's activities weighing him down. "Well, I'm going home," he said. "Who can give me a ride?"

"I can, Mr. Spencer," said Gus with a hint of hopefulness in his expression.

Henry cocked an eyebrow. "Do you want to stay at my house tonight, Gus?"

"Could I?" he asked with such a hopeful tone that Henry flashed back to when the kids were 10 and would beg for sleepovers.

"Sure," he said with a small laugh. And he had to admit that the idea of having company was comforting. The evening's experience had shaken him up a bit. "You coming too, Shawn?"

"Um, yeah," said Shawn looking a bit dazed. "I guess so."

They all stood up and started for the door.

"Lassie," said Shawn. "You're staying in Juliet's room then?"

Lassiter nodded.

"Okay, man. Take it easy. Have fun tomorrow. You'll have to tell us what you can find out," said Shawn with an expectant look.

"We'll see, Spencer," said Lassiter.

Henry said, "Yeah, on that note, maybe we can have another meeting tomorrow. There was something else I had to show you all, especially you, Lassiter. The whole arson attempt and hospital trip kind of interrupted me."

Lassiter's eyebrows raised. "Okay. Let's do that."

Henry nodded. He'd figured greasing the wheels a little with Lassiter would encourage his willingness to share any information he learned. And he was pretty sure the photograph he'd found in his files would prove useful, with Lassiter's confirmation, although a part of him dreaded the possibility as well. He found himself wishing he'd brought his sunglasses along in the middle of the night as he squinted his way through the bright lights of the hospital hallways and followed the boys out to the little blue car.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter heard a voice and opened his eyes, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu as he found himself once again waking up in the chair in Juliet's hospital room. He turned his head, feeling the now-familiar pounding in his skull and a new, painful kink in his neck. The voice was murmuring softly, but it stopped when he shifted his position towards the room's interior.

"Hey, Lassie," said Shawn who was sitting on the far side of Juliet's bed, one hand resting lightly on her arm.

Lassiter blinked. "Spencer."

"Sorry if I woke you up."

Lassiter sat up and rubbed his face, noticing the weak light coming in through the blinds. He glanced at the clock and was slightly shocked to find it only read 5:30AM. "What's wrong?" he asked, figuring Spencer wouldn't be up at that hour of the morning unless there was a problem.

"Nothing," said Shawn quickly. "I just couldn't sleep."

"Oh."

"I just," Shawn faltered and looked at Juliet, then back at Lassiter with a hint of embarrassment. "I had to tell her something."

Lassiter felt a flush of embarrassment himself, feeling suddenly like he was intruding on something private even though he'd been sound asleep. He cleared his throat and asked, "How did you get in here?"

"They let me in. I guess they figured since you were asleep you didn't count as a visitor," said Shawn with a faint smirk. Then his expression sobered. "To be honest, I begged shamelessly."

Lassiter stood up and stifled a groan at all of the aches and stiff muscles that protested his movement.

"Did you want to sleep more?" asked Shawn. "I can take off."

"No. I'm going to get some real clothes at home and head to the station."

"Oh, come on, you don't think green tablecloth material counts as real clothes?" quipped Shawn, but then his expression changed back to serious once again. He picked at the edge of Juliet's blanket as he cleared his throat. "Hey, um, I just wanted to say thank you for being there last night. You saved my dad's house, and maybe my dad."

Now Lassiter felt uncomfortable and cringed inwardly. "I just did what, you know," he stuttered to a stop. "Don't mention it."

Shawn smiled faintly and nodded, still keeping his eyes down. Lassiter sighed and escaped into the restroom to splash some water on his face. He was never able to grasp how Shawn and Henry could be at each others' throats so much while still caring so obviously for each other. At least, it was obvious during moments of crisis. He felt a pang inside that he tried not to recognize as jealousy and scrubbed his face until his headache protested. It was a relationship he couldn't identify with. He didn't have enough of a similar experience to compare with it. He sighed again and forced his mind to focus on the present instead of the past. He had a possible mob enforcer to run to ground.

**OoOoOoO**

Bob took a large bit of his cruller, savoring its melt-in-your mouth freshness. Nothing beat donuts straight from the bakery oven first thing in the morning. Morton was making happy grunting noises as he wolfed down his apple fritter. They were the only customers in the tiny bakery, sitting at the only table in the room. It was a friendly bakery and one they frequented most mornings. As Bob took a cautious swig of the extra-hot coffee, he noticed a yuppie-looking guy walking along the sidewalk and slowing as he approached the door. His brow furrowed. Hopefully the guy would conduct his business quickly, because they were supposed to be having a meeting in just another ten minutes. The man was older, but not as old as he and Morton. Bob guessed the he was somewhere in his sixties, although the way he carried himself came across as younger. He was wearing a trilby hat that Bob recalled from his youth as standard menswear, though he'd been noticing more recently that young kids had been favoring them again. Fads come and go, he thought wryly. The man reached for the door handle and pulled off his sunglasses as he entered. His eyes met Bob's and sent a frisson of surprise through him.

"Gentlemen," said Sinclair as he sat in the third chair. "I'm a bit early." His long hair had been cut to shoulder-length and pulled into a pony-tail, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He was wearing khaki slacks and a white t-shirt under a blue linen blazer. He pulled his hat off and set it on the table while his black eyes twinkled at Morton's shocked expression.

"My god!" hissed Morton as he focused on the killer. "What are you supposed to be in that get-up?"

Sinclair gave Morton a crooked smile. "Different," he said.

"You look like one of those damned Hollywood-types that skulk around here," huffed Morton, then he snickered and shook his head. "You are something else."

Bob went to the counter and retrieved a fresh coffee and a plain cake donut for Sinclair as he and Morton began their conversation. The cruller was suddenly sitting heavily in his stomach as he listened to them discuss Morton's desires. His friend's sudden bloodlust seemed so out of character, at least, it was more extreme than he'd seen for several decades. And Sinclair's enthusiasm for killing had always made his skin crawl. Maybe he really was getting old and soft, he thought grimly. He'd gotten comfortable being away from the lifestyle and the conflict and the cold-bloodedness. The past years had been spent in relative quiet, just sitting with Morton in the evenings for smokes and drinks, talking over old memories or griping about current affairs. He sat silently as the men talked, but he realized after a while that Sinclair was flashing him piercing glances. Bob felt a thrill of fear run down his spine. He kicked himself for telegraphing his mood. It could be a fatal mistake around predators like Sinclair.

"So the psychic kid, Mortie? How'd he get under your skin so bad?"

"Ah, don't ask," grumbled the old man. "I got my reasons."

Sinclair nodded. "I get that. Tell the truth, I did a little checking into these guys after the other day," he said. Morton raised his eyebrows and Sinclair shrugged. "I got curious. They're quite the crew, the cops and these two kids. And come to find out I had a run-in with the psychic's dad some time ago. He used to be a cop, too."

"Huh," said the old man. "No wonder I hated the guy on sight." They all laughed at that one.

"Well, I have some fun stuff planned. Things I've been...developing...that need testing," said Sinclair with a happily feral grin. "So I wasn't put out at the idea of coming back. Like I said before, I haven't had this kind of fun in a while. Not too many other people out in the desert, you know."

Bob felt the tingle of fear and disgust run down his spine again at Sinclair's words. The man was essentially a psychopath who had found a way to make money with his taste and talent for death. He remembered some years ago speaking to Sinclair about a job and the man had said "Do what you love." It had ruined the phrase for Bob ever since, and he would cringe when he heard it on sappy morning shows or when he saw it on greeting cards. He saw Sinclair glance at him again and stood up to get a refill.

As was usual with Sinclair, they only talked about "business" very briefly, then they settled into an almost pleasant conversation about the old days in Chicago. Bob felt himself relax, finally, and joined in happily, chiding himself for overreacting earlier. He still wasn't thrilled about Morton's desire to punish the psychic kid and his dad, but it wasn't his place to worry about Morton's motivations. He just had to help facilitate things. And the quicker the business was finished, the faster they could get back to their habits. Maybe he'd even venture to contact Maxwell at some point and try to talk sense into the dolt. If he and Morton could mend some fences it would go a long way towards making Morton's, and so Bob's, life more pleasant. He was daydreaming his conversation with Maxwell when he realized that Sinclair was rising to leave.

"Hey, Bob, can I talk to you a sec?" asked Sinclair as he put his hat on and pulled out his sunglasses.

Bob blinked, feeling his stomach do an uncomfortable flip. "Sure thing," said Bob, hoping his enthusiasm didn't sound forced. He followed as Sinclair stepped outside.

"How you doing there, Bob? You looked like you had a sour stomach earlier. You feeling okay?" asked Sinclair as he watched the street, only glancing peripherally at Bob.

"Oh, yeah, I'm just fine."

"Good," said Sinclair with a toothy grin. "You've always been a rock, Bob. I'd hate to see you starting to crack like Mortie."

Bob's face fell and his chest seemed to get tight. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't be coy. I know why he had to come out here and drop off the radar. The families started to doubt him, because of that dumbass kid of his and their issues. He was making iffy moves. I know you're the one who got him away safe, negotiated this...exile...if you will."

Bob pursed his lips and glanced into the bakery for a moment, but Morton was chatting with his friend behind the counter.

"That's okay, Bob. You don't have to talk about it. I just wanted to make sure you weren't flaking out, like he did all those years ago. I just wanted to make sure you keep your perspective now, like you did then, so that you can keep him...and yourself...safe," said Sinclair.

The threat in his words carried in the pleasant, conversational tone, made it even more blood-curdling. Bob blinked and stared at the man for a moment. "I'm not sure I'm understanding you," he said with a whisper.

"I think you got it," said Sinclair meeting his gaze, his black stare boring into him. "You take care of yourself, now, and Mortie too. You two aren't getting any younger, you know."

Bob watched as the killer grinned and put on his sunglasses before turning away, strolling down the street like he owned it.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn walked out of the hospital some time after 9AM and felt like he had enough energy to run to the police station. After Lassie had left, he'd found himself growing sleepy and had taken over the chair in Juliet's room, dozing for a couple of hours. The nurses had come in to get Juliet for some tests and had asked him to leave. He'd held her hand for another minute, mumbling a goodbye, when he'd felt her hand twitch in his, as if her fingers were trying to tighten around his own. He'd yelled with excitement. The nurse had noted down the incident in Juliet's file, but had tried to keep his expectations from getting too high. He'd nodded at her words, but inside he ignored her cautions. It was like a weight had been lifted from his chest and he could breathe freely again when he hadn't even realized he wasn't before. The relief was so very sweet that he wasn't about to squash it. Juliet was going to be okay.

He walked over to his bike, humming a song that had been stuck in his head all night and waving at the squad car that was assigned to shadow him around. For some reason, he glanced across the street and noticed a man in a blue coat and an old-fashioned looking hat. Trilby, he thought, flashing back to one of his dad's "how many hats" lessons. The guy looked kind of old to be wearing the hat, or not old enough? Shawn shrugged and smiled, thinking of the jokes he could be making about the guy to Gus if he'd been there. He looked up at the man one more time, taking in more details in order to tell the jokes to Gus in retrospect, just in case there wasn't anything at the station to make fun of later. The guy seemed to be looking at him, which was creepy. What the hell was he doing standing there anyway? It wasn't a bus stop. Maybe he was waiting for a friend to get out of the hospital. His sunglasses seemed too big for his face. Shawn ran through some bug-eyes or fly-eyes quips in his head as he got on the bike and headed to the SBPD.

The rest of the day was spent hovering at the fringes of the bustling station. The chief tried to kick Shawn and Gus out at first. She was already irritated by her earlier argument with Lassie, which she had lost, and she wasn't in the mood to tolerate them as well. They vowed to be on their best behavior, though, and were saved at last by the chief getting a phone call. Lassiter was giving a statement to one of the other detectives about the fake custodian. When Shawn realized this, he happily performed a dramatic "vision" regarding the spilled toner and the footprints near the Psych office and Hammond's house as his way of corroborating Lassie's statement. The chief had seemed relieved when the spilled toner near the records room was pointed out since they seemed to finally be making progress. She had sent out forensics units to check Psych and Hammond's yard for toner. The forensics team had already discovered and recorded the footprint in the yard previously, and the chief let slip that the footprint matched the man Lassie had caught. So the good news just kept coming, and Shawn's spirits kept rising. At one point, he managed to sidle up to Lassiter who stopped growling at him when he told him about the hand-holding incident with Juliet. His face lit up with relief, and for a second Shawn thought he might even give him a hug.

But then the action at the station ratcheted up another level in tension when two FBI agents arrived late in the afternoon to discuss the possible mob connection with the chief. Shawn and Gus and Lassiter were all forbidden to join in, though. The chief sternly told them to leave, but then she softened her tone enough to say that she would give the FBI all of the information they had given her and would stress the need to investigate the matter. They all knew the chief was going to bat for them, so they decided to gather at Henry's house again to continue their own discussions. They filed out of the station to their vehicles. Shawn tossed his helmet in Gus's car and suggested that his police guard remain at the station to watch over his bike instead. The officer didn't seem amused by the idea, but Shawn couldn't help feeling happy and cracking jokes. After he climbed in the passenger seat, he noticed a man sitting on the bottom step of the station reading a newspaper. He was wearing shorts with black socks that made Shawn grin, and he had on a baseball cap and big sunglasses. Something about the man seemed familiar, but then Gus started griping about his lack of churros for the past couple of days, demanding back payment. They argued terms as they pulled out and the whole group of them drove like a caravan across town: blue Crown Vic, police cruiser, Blueberry, police cruiser.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Henry leaned back in the porch chair and put some more saline drops in his eyes. The damned things only helped a little, and the burning was driving him nuts. He took a long swig of his beer. It was helping more than the eye drops. He wondered if he should pour the beer in his eyes instead. He heard tires, what sounded like a whole traffic jam, and sat up to see what was happening.

"Good grief," he grumbled, feeling less like having another meeting than when he'd proposed the idea. He was tired and in pain and not feeling particularly sociable.

He watched with a grimace as the boys and Lassiter all gathered together to confer with their escorts. His own guard joined the crowd. Shawn glanced at him a couple of times, obviously wondering why he hadn't joined in, but he was in no mood to kibitz. Finally, two of the cruisers drove off. They'd apparently concluded that one guard would be enough since they were all gathered in one place. The other two officers had probably gone off for a dinner break.

"Dad!" called Shawn as the three of them came up the walk. "You look like crap."

Henry closed his eyes and sighed. Yep, it was going to be a tough meeting to take. "Zip it, Shawn."

"Ooh, grumpy too," said Shawn with a snarky grin.

"You're in a good mood," grumbled Henry.

"I am, actually. I think Juliet might wake up soon. And I think we're making progress on the case."

"We?"

Shawn grimaced. "The police, with some of our super-powered input," said Shawn as he waved a hand to indicate Lassiter and Gus.

Lassiter rolled his eyes and sat down in one of the other porch chairs. "How are you doing, Henry?"

"I feel like crap."

Shawn grinned as Lassiter just nodded knowingly.

"Stop grinning and turn on the grill," ordered Henry. "You've gotta do the cooking. I won't be able to take the heat."

Shawn stepped close and peered at him. "Wow. You could give Ben Stein a run for his money," said Shawn. Henry's brow furrowed in confusion. "You know, the eye drop commercials. That guy? Bueller?"

Henry sighed and stood up to get the steaks from the refrigerator. He'd pulled them out of the freezer earlier, determined to eat something more real than pizza this time. He also decided to get the photograph he'd discovered. It was the whole reason for the meeting, and he wanted to get it out of the way. He even found himself hoping that they might all just leave afterwards so he could go to bed. Gus followed him into the house, and he turned to him with a curious look.

"Do you need me to help with anything?" asked Gus, forever polite.

"Yeah, you can get the steaks out of the fridge and get some seasoning. Can you cook them?"

"Sure, no problem," said Gus as he moved into the kitchen and started gathering steaks and cooking utensils.

Henry went into his bedroom and grabbed the file he'd stashed under his pillow. When he went back out on the porch, he found Lassiter and Shawn drinking beers from the small cooler he'd taken out earlier.

"I thought you were on meds," said Henry as he tossed the file on Lassiter's lap.

The detective shrugged. "Meds aren't working so well."

"Beer probably won't help," groused Henry as he sat down again and grabbed his cold compress. He felt a flutter of anticipation in his gut as he leaned back and pressed the cool cloth over his aching eyes.

"It'll help me care less," griped Lassiter. There was a shuffling of papers, then the sound of chair legs scraping the wood. "Holy hell!"

Henry felt a spike of cold fear in his chest and squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly under cover of the compress. He'd been hoping against hope that he'd been wrong.

"What?" coughed Shawn as Lassiter's outburst surprised him mid-swig.

"It's him," breathed Lassiter. "Much younger. Who is this, Henry?" His voice had taken on a flinty tone.

"Sinclair," Henry said heavily.

There was silence for several moments and Henry sat up again. He saw Gus standing just inside the door, arms laden precariously, with a look of confused fear on his face as he watched Lassiter. Shawn's confusion was more straightforward as he stood next to the detective, leaning over his shoulder to study the picture. Lassiter was glaring at it, jaw muscles working and eyes gradually narrowing. Henry sighed, wondering if he should've shown them the picture at all instead of just going straight to Karen or the FBI.

"Who's Sinclair?" asked Shawn. He jumped over to open the door for Gus when he noticed his friend's predicament.

"Hitman," said Lassiter.

"Our hitman?" gasped Shawn.

"He's all mine now," growled Lassiter as he continued glaring at the image.

Henry snorted and shook his head.

Lassiter looked up at him with indignant shock. "What?"

Henry rolled his eyes. "Nothing. Now that we know it's really him, we can work some of his connections," he said. "He's just a tool, remember. There's someone paying his bill. And arson isn't one of his methods, so whoever pulled that crap last night was another contractor. Has there been any word from the guy you caught?"

Lassiter grimaced and sat back in his chair again. "No, he's not talking. At all. And he's only in the system for minor stuff, B&E, car theft. No hint of anything bigger, like mob."

Shawn took the picture from Lassiter and sat down to study it. Lassiter scowled and took a long swig of his beer.

"What do you see, kid?" asked Henry.

Shawn just shrugged and continued staring at the picture.

"How do you want your steaks?" asked Gus who'd been busy at the grill the whole time. The smell was starting to make Henry's mouth water.

"Rare," they all said simultaneously.

"Someone better get some plates then," said Gus.

They wolfed down their steaks with a side of potato chips, since Henry hadn't had the energy or inclination to prepare anything else. Afterwards, they moved inside for better light with the sun long gone below the horizon. Gus and Shawn were both studying the picture while Lassiter had started pacing the floor, his growing agitation painfully obvious.

"So, I think the best thing to do now is go to Karen with this information. The FBI can track down Sinclair and figure out who hired him," said Henry as he rubbed at his sore, watering eyes with more kleenexes.

"Not yet," growled Lassiter. "I'm not getting shut out of this investigation anymore. We can find this guy ourselves."

Henry barked derisively. "The hell we can. He's a professional."

Lassiter stopped pacing and glared at Henry. "You don't think we can do this?"

"I don't think we SHOULD do this," said Henry sharply, sitting up and meeting Lassiter's glare with his own. He was tired and in pain and fed up with the whole situation. He was in no mood to coddle the detective's volatile feelings. "This is not the time to go off half-cocked in order to satisfy some revenge fantasy."

Lassiter's mouth opened and closed for a moment as he struggled through his outrage. Henry noticed Shawn and Gus's wide-eyed stares at their argument as Shawn hugged a pillow tightly. He knew he was letting the sudden conflict get out of hand, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He needed to vent and Lassiter had been unfortunate enough to open the grate.

"Just because you couldn't catch him," began Lassiter.

"Oh don't start that shit with me!" bellowed Henry, sitting forward and pointing a finger at the detective. "At least I've never been called Detective Dipstick."

"WHOA!" yelled Shawn, jumping up from the couch and holding his hands out as if to keep the men apart even though they were still only glaring at each other. "What the hell?"

Lassiter's face was as red as Henry's eyes felt. "Screw you, Spencer," he hissed. "I'm taking that file. And I'll thank you all to stay the hell out of my way." He grabbed the file from the couch and turned to stalk out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Shawn stared at Henry for a moment. "What. The. Hell?"

Henry sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees, putting his face in his hands. "Well, hell," he mumbled.

"Seriously, dad," said Shawn.

"Sorry guys. I'm tired and feel like crap and I guess everything just got to me. I didn't mean to go off on him like that," said Henry as he flashed a look of regret at the door. "Although I do think it's a stupid idea to go after Sinclair."

Shawn ran his hands through his hair and then down his face. "He just took the file, too," he said with exasperation.

"What do you think he's going to do?" asked Gus timidly. No one responded.

"Wait, what did he mean 'you couldn't catch him'?" asked Shawn. "You know this guy?"

"I worked a case 25 years ago. Sinclair came to Santa Barbara chasing a mob snitch from Chicago. He got him, too. Then he disappeared."

Shawn sat down as Gus's look of horror increased.

"He's bad news, Shawn," said Henry.

Shawn met Henry's gaze. His expression softened slightly. "Don't worry, dad. We can get this guy, but we all need to work together."

"We need to hand this off to the FBI," said Henry.

"Look, I know you're scared, dad, but are you sure the FBI can do this better than us?"

"I'm not scared, Shawn," grumbled Henry, but then he realized that he was. He was scared to death. His pain and discomfort weren't enough to explain the way he'd blown up at Lassiter. He was also frightened for his son, for all of them. He sighed and slumped back in his chair.

"Okay," said Shawn as he sat down again. "Let's give him a little time to cool off, then I'll go talk to him. Maybe we can make a deal with the chief, barter this information we have for the chance to work on the case."

"You really think it's a good idea for you to be the one who talks him down?" asked Gus with a skeptical look. "And how are you going to find him?"

"I'll find him," said Shawn.

Henry groaned. He felt like gouging his own eyes out. "Guys, I'm sorry, but I need to take a pain pill and go to bed. My eyes are killing me."

"Sure thing, dad," said Shawn. "We'll see you tomorrow."

They stood up and went out the front door. Henry sighed heavily and felt like falling asleep in the chair, but he knew he'd regret it in the morning. So, he stood up and walked to the door to lock it. He noticed the boys leaning against the blue car and talking to the officer. They were probably waiting for their own escorts to reassemble. He grimaced. The idea of all of the officers Karen was having to assign to them, taking them away from other police work, reignited the anger inside. This whole thing had to end, soon. He didn't blame Lassiter for wanting to hare off after Sinclair because he could understand his motivation. But, it was still the wrong thing to do. They just had to buckle down and find him the the right way, with brains and care and proper procedure, so they could be sure the bastard would stay in jail forever.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter stalked down the hallway, radiating quills of agitation and anger. His blood was still boiling from the argument with Henry, and he knew he needed to calm down, but he had to get to his safe place first. He saw the nurse's expression flash from recognition to wariness as he approached, and he tried to adjust his own features, smoothing out the deep scowl to as close to neutral as he could manage.

"Detective," she said as he reached the desk. "She's made some progress. We removed the breathing tubes earlier."

Lassiter blinked, feeling a sudden, jarring disconnect from his anger. "Is...what does that mean?"

"It means she's improving rapidly. They think the brain swelling has either already gone down or wasn't as bad as they initially feared. She's fighting through this really well. You have a strong partner, there."

"Damn straight," whispered Lassiter, feeling his heart suddenly racing but fueled by hope instead of fury. "I'm just going to..."

The nurse smiled. "You can talk to her a little, but keep it calm, please. And try to get some rest yourself. You look a frazzled."

Lassiter snorted and found himself miraculously cracking a small smile. "That doesn't even begin to cover it. Thank you."

He felt an odd sense of hesitation as he opened the door to Juliet's room, simultaneously hoping and fearing that she would be awake and watching as he entered. She was sleeping, of course, but she looked so much better without all of the tubes and paraphernalia. She looked so normal, it made his heart ache. He walked slowly over to stand at her side, just watching her for a moment, feeling vaguely like he was intruding on her sleep. He remembered as if waking from a dream that he was holding the file folder of pictures. It felt heavy in his hands and he dropped it onto the rolling table.

He walked around to the far side of the bed and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder for a moment. "O'Hara," he whispered. "You're doing great, partner. Keep fighting. You're going to be fine."

She didn't stir, and he felt suddenly as if all of the emotions he'd gone through in the past hour popped around him like a balloon in which he'd been suspended. His legs went rubbery. He turned and aimed himself towards the sleeper chair as gravity pulled at him mercilessly. As he slumped into the familiar cushions, he stifled a groan and fought back a surprising and unwanted stinging in his eyes.

"Dammit, O'Hara. I don't want to screw this up," he said as he pressed the heels of his hand to his forehead. "I can't screw this up. I can't let this guy win." He took a deep shuddering breath and let it out slowly, feeling something loosen in his chest. "Henry's right, though, damn him. I can't go after a professional hitman alone."

He sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to his partner's normal breathing as he stared at the ceiling. "I don't know why the Spencers get to me so badly," he mumbled as he started to feel a soft, drifting sensation. "It's like they're mirrors, showing me all of the things I miss or all of the things I do wrong. I mean, I'm a grown man, but sometimes those two make me feel like a child again, being lectured by my father, in detail, about all of the ways I'm a failure." He stopped as his throat tightened, and wondered detachedly why he was saying these things aloud. He hated thinking them and always tried to shove them into the darkest corners of his mind. Why was he speaking them out loud now? "I don't want to be a failure."

Silence settled again. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away. Some time later he woke, feeling the need to use the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and stood for a minute staring at himself in the mirror, noting the bags under his eyes and the stubble growing on his chin. He looked like a mess. It was time to stop wallowing. It was time to shape-up and get back to work. The right kind of work. The work he knew, that kept him grounded, that gave him the sense of accomplishment he needed, that kept him from being a failure. He'd catch the hitman, just like all of the other bad guys he caught, but he'd do it the right way. He took a deep breath and turned back into the room. His gaze settled on the folder, but then movement caught his attention and his eyes shifted to Juliet. Her hand flexed. He was at her side in an instant.

"Juliet?"

His heart fluttered when her eyelids moved. They opened slightly.

"Juliet? Hey partner," he whispered, leaning forward to enter her line of sight.

Her eyes opened a bit more but remained unfocused. He tried to hold back his excitement and remind himself that she probably wasn't really cognizant. Still, the sight of her eyes again made him suddenly ecstatic. Her lids closed and opened again in a slow-motion blink, and then for a moment her gaze seemed to focus on him. The corner of her mouth turned up.

"Oh thank god," he breathed.

"Hey," she said. Actually, he wasn't sure she really spoke, but her mouth opened in a wider smile and she breathed out what sounded like the word.

"Hey," he said. "You're doing great, partner. You're going to be fine."

Her eyes closed, but a ghost of the smile remained as she fell asleep again. He took a step back, sitting on the arm of the chair, and put his hands over his face as a sobbing breath escaped him.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn found himself once again awake and clothed and NOT just heading to bed at the ungodly hour of 6AM. It was getting to be a bad habit that he was determined to break as soon as possible. But, sometimes it was necessary to indulge bad habits, like morning-personess, in dire times. He approached the nurses' station balancing four large coffees in the flimsy cardboard carrier. He smiled widely, hoping the bribe of fresh coffee would get him into the room with Lassie. He'd called the hospital after parting ways with Gus at his dad's house and then getting the ride to his own place from his police escort. The nurse had confirmed that Lassiter was in Juliet's room, as he'd suspected, so he'd gone ahead and caught a few hours of sleep in his own bed, finally. Waking up had been hard, but he'd wanted to make sure he intercepted Lassie before he left the hospital again, just in case he was actually going to carry through on the idea of chasing Sinclair.

"Good morning," he said. "I thought you might need some coffee at this hour that shall remain nameless and shunned."

The nurse smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer. Detective Lassiter is inside, still. Detective O'Hara is doing great. She's off of the breathing tube and showing much improvement."

"Awesome!" he said sincerely. "Can I go in too? I promise I will make no noise."

The nurse rolled her eyes. "You can go check on her, but if you two have any...lively conversations...please come out here to do it."

Shawn gave her his most charming smile. "Thank you, so much," he said. He turned to the room and saw Juliet's guard. "Hey man, need coffee?"

After that delivery, he carried the other two cups into the room, opening the door slowly and quietly. He peeked inside before stepping through. Lassie was sitting in the smaller chair that he'd pulled up right next to Juliet's bed. His head was resting on his arms that were crossed on the guardrail. When the door shut behind Shawn, Lassiter raised his head.

"Hey, Lassie," whispered Shawn. "I'm just bringing some coffee."

"Spencer," said Lassiter blearily. He sat back and winced at kinks in his neck and shoulders, then he rubbed at his face. "What time is it?" 

"Six AM."

Lassiter sighed. "This is getting to be a habit."

"You're telling me," said Shawn grimly. "Here's some wake-up juice." He handed the large coffee cup to the detective and then put his own cup down on the rolling table, noticing the folder. "How's Juliet?"

Lassiter face suddenly lit up, which caught Shawn by surprise. "She woke up!" he breathed.

"Dude!" hissed Shawn, staring at Lassiter, disbelieving. "When?" 

"Last night, just for a second. She smiled," he said as an echoing smile formed on his face.

Shawn stepped over to Juliet's side and leaned over to study her face. She looked like she was resting comfortably, just sleeping. She looked like she'd wake up any second and give him a big, warm smile. "Thank god," he whispered.

There was a stretch of silence as Shawn continued to watch Juliet for a few moments. Lassiter drank some of his coffee and stood up to stretch out more kinks. Shawn took a deep breath, then, and decided he should jump right into the deep end of the uncomfortable-subjects pool and get it over with.

"Hey, Lassie. About last night..."

Lassiter was facing the windows, peering out through the blinds at the rising sun. His back tensed at Shawn's words.

"My dad wasn't really himself," said Shawn, continuing his dive. "Well, maybe he was TOO much himself, I don't know." He faltered.

"Spencer," said Lassiter grimly.

"No, just let me say this," said Shawn. He took a deep breath. "I...uh...he didn't mean, or we didn't mean...you know...um..."

Lassiter turned around and looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

"You know what I mean?" asked Shawn, feeling foolish but unsure of how to articulate an apology on his father's behalf.

"Just forget it," said Lassiter, expression sober and tinged with discomfort.

"Yeah, but, don't feel...you know..."

"I'm going to take the picture to the chief," said Lassiter.

Shawn blinked with surprise, although not so much at Lassiter's decision, which he'd expected would be the one he'd make after cooling down. But he felt surprised at his lack of anger. "Okay," said Shawn. "If you think that's best."

Lassiter nodded. "Of course it's best. It's procedure," he said gruffly. Then his features relaxed slightly as he turned his gaze to Juliet. "Maybe I can convince her to let me work on the case in some capacity. Even if I don't get to be the one to apprehend Sinclair."

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, that's kinda what I was thinking," he said. He felt a sudden, weird tingle in his spine at the thought that he and Lassie had the same kind of thought. "So, uh, when are you going to let her know?"

"I'll head to the station in a few minutes."

Shawn pursed his lips. He was torn, himself, about the whole thing. He knew they had to let the chief and the FBI know what they'd discovered, but his ever-present distrust in the competence of the authorities kept niggling at him. Well, he'd found a way to satisfy both sides of the issue. He'd been doing it for years, after all.

He put his hand to his temple and said, "The spirits are saying that's a good idea, Lassie. They approve. And they're saying 'Signs Point To Yes' on the possibility that the chief will let us help on the case. Or maybe that was just my Magic 8 Ball this morning. It's hard to tell, sometimes." Lassiter's expression changed to the familiar, irritated scowl for a moment, which made Shawn feel like things were going to get back to normal soon. "Hey, can I look at the picture again, first? There's something about it..."

"Sure," said Lassiter with a shrug. "What about it, though? You didn't see him."

"I know, but I swear there's something so weirdly familiar in the one guy," said Shawn as he flipped open the folder and peered at the picture intently.

"Which guy?" asked Lassiter as he stepped to Shawn's side.

"This one," said Shawn, pointing to a man in the background.

The picture looked like it was taken some time in the 1980's, judging by the clothing and some cars visible in the background. The image showed a group of men standing in a parking lot. The focus of the shot was on two men in the middle shaking hands. One man, the one Lassie had identified as Sinclair, was turned partway towards the camera. The scar on the bridge of his nose was visible. The other man looked like a stereotypical mobster in a silk shirt with gold chains around his neck. Two men in the picture were obviously bodyguards. They were turned away from the other men, watchful. The man Shawn was pointing out was an older guy, standing off to the side slightly and watching the exchange between Sinclair and the mobster. He wore glasses and had a thick cigar in his mouth. He was dressed much more formally, in a suit and tie and wearing a trenchcoat.

Lassiter leaned forward to peer at the image. "Huh. I hadn't really looked at the other men," he admitted. After another moment, he drew in a breath. "There IS something familiar about that guy."

The door opened and the nurse entered, eyeing the two of them before moving over to check on Juliet. After she checked a couple of things she turned to them again. "Mr. Spencer, I need to speak to you outside."

Shawn's brow furrowed. "Okay," he said as he followed her out the door.

When they were at the desk, she said, "Your friend, Mr. Guster, called and said he needed to see you."

"Really?" said Shawn, feeling a small thrill of anxiety. He hadn't thought Gus would be awake yet. He'd said the night before that he'd canceled his routes and was planning to sleep in to recover from all of the stress of the past few days. "What did he say?"

"He asked for you to meet him at your office as soon as you could get there," she said with a look of concern. "I hope everything is okay."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure it is," said Shawn, feeling that it really wasn't. "Thank you." He turned back to the room to tell Lassie what was happening.

"I'll head over to the station while you check on Guster," said Lassiter. He paused and studied Shawn's face. "Do you think there's a problem?"

Shawn shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought Gus was going to sleep in."

"Well, make sure you have your officer escort with you. Have him call in if there's any hint of funny stuff," said Lassiter as he put on his suit coat and picked up the file. "I've got my car again, so I can hear any calls that go through."

Shawn smirked. "So what you're saying is you got my back?"

Lassiter sucked his teeth and tilted his head. "I wouldn't put it that way," he said dryly. Then he gave Shawn a sober look. "Just be careful."

"You too, big dog," said Shawn with a small grin. "I'll come to the station after I see what's up. I've got some spiritual messages to deliver in case we need to grease the wheels with the FBI."

They both took a moment to say a quick goodbye to Juliet, then they walked down the hallway to the elevators with Shawn chattering aimlessly and Lassiter trying his best to ignore him for the ride down to the main floor.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Buzz!" said Shawn as he parted ways with Lassiter outside of the hospital and found the officer waiting for him. "Are you my new babysitter?"

"Yeah, shift change. Do you have your bike, or do you need a ride?"

"I need a ride, dude, and I guess we're headed to Psych."

Buzz's brow furrowed. "Why's that?"

Shawn shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm not sure. I got a message inside that said Gus needed to meet me there."

"Huh. Okay, are you ready to go?" asked Buzz as he walked around to the driver's side.

"Sure," said Shawn. He climbed into the passenger seat and buckled up. "Hey, can you call in and check with whoever is guarding Gus right now?"

Buzz raised his eyebrows. "I can do that. Do you think there's a problem?"

"I dont' know. I'm just getting some weird vibes," said Shawn with a grimace.

Buzz called in and was told that Gus's guards had just made their shift change. Officer Baker was Gus's new guard, and he'd reported in that they'd just left for the Psych office.

Shawn sighed. "Okay, thanks for checking. I guess he did just want to show me something," said Shawn as Buzz drove. "Looks like we'll get there first, though. I'm not sure I want to see the damage in the light of day."

Buzz gave him a sympathetic frown. "I'm sure you can get it fixed up as good as new."

After less than ten minutes, they arrived at the office. Shawn saw a van in the parking lot with the name "Parson & Sons Contractors" painted on the side.

"Wow, Gus works fast. This must be why he wanted to meet here," said Shawn as he climbed out of the squad car and walked toward the office. Buzz climbed out as well and walked a quick circuit around the van, peering in the windows and shrugging, before following.

Shawn paused to gaze at the blackened outer wall. It really didn't look too bad. He wondered if they'd be able to get by with just some new siding alone, or if any of the damage had gotten into the wall.

"It doens't look that bad," offered Buzz when he reached his side.

Shawn shrugged and walked to the door. When he opened it he sniffed, noticing an odd odor as he walked through. He'd expected the smells of gasoline and ash and maybe other chemical odors from the stuff the fire fighters had used to neutralize any un-ignited gasoline. But this smell seemed more...animal...somehow.

"Do you smell that?" he asked, but before Buzz could respond, a man walked to the door of the inner office and headed towards them, startling Shawn. "What...uh...are you the contractor?"

Shawn gazed at the man who was, oddly, wearing sunglasses indoors. He had on some standard workman's overalls with the Parsons name stitched on them. His hair was a flat-top style buzz cut and his face was clean-shaven. Something about him set off alarm bells in Shawn's mind, but he wasn't sure why.

"Hi there," said the contractor. He was carrying a big rectangular tool box and seemed in a hurry to get out the door, taking steps towards it as he spoke. "Are you Mr. Guster? I'm just going to check that outside wall again, and I can write up the estimate you asked for, lickety-split."

Shawn and Buzz both opened their mouths to speak to the man, but then Gus came through the main office door.

"Shawn! What's going on?" he asked as he pulled up in surprise before running into the contractor. He shifted sideways as the man pushed past him and out the door. "Who's that?"

"What?" asked Shawn. "Didn't you call him? And is that why you called to meet me here?"

"Called you? You called me, or the other officer said you'd called and left a message to meet me here. I was planning to sleep in," said Gus with a look of indignant confusion.

Shawn and Gus and Buzz stood there for a moment, staring at each other, then all of their expressions registered alarm in the same instant.

"You didn't call that guy?" asked Shawn as he started for the front door.

"Stay here!" ordered Buzz as he ran into both Shawn and Gus on his way to the inner office.

"What's happening?" whined Gus as he got caught in the middle of the two and was shoved around in their attempts to get past him and each other.

Buzz ran into the inner officer with his hand on his weapon, gazing around. Shawn rushed to the door, but he couldn't see the contractor anymore. The van was still there, though, with Gus's little car pulled up just on the other side of it. "Where'd he go?" he hissed. He saw Baker sitting in his squad car in the parking space on the opposite side of the van from the Blueberry and waved at him to come in, then he turned back to Gus.

"Is he not a contractor?" asked Gus worriedly.

"Did you call a contractor?" asked Shawn again, feeling his stomach flipping in alarming ways.

"No."

"Well I didn't either, so if he's a contractor, he's not the fixing-buildings kind," said Shawn as his brain started running through all of the scenarios. He looked past Gus to Buzz. "See anything? Do you think he planted a bomb?"

"I don't see anything," said Buzz as he rejoined them. "But maybe you guys will recognize something out of place. Where'd the guy go?"

"A bomb?" squeaked Gus.

"I don't know. I don't see him outside anymore," said Shawn.

"What's up?" asked Baker as he came to the door.

"Did you see where that guy went?" asked Buzz.

Baker's brow furrowed. "He went over by the burnt part of the wall, but then he walked around the other side of the building. Is there a problem?"

"What should we do?" asked Gus. "We should leave, right?"

"What if he left and the bomb is in the van?" asked Shawn as his brain ran through more scenarios. "Maybe that's what he planned, scare us out of the office and then blow it up when we're out there."

"Bomb?" asked Baker with alarm.

Gus started to look pale, which was a trick.

Buzz gave Shawn a worried look as well. "Just stay here a minute," he said, then he turned to Baker. "Call for backup and then come with me. They didn't call a contractor. We need to find this guy and check the van." The two officers moved out of the office and took separate routes to circle the building while Baker keyed up his radio to call the station.

Shawn and Gus stared at each other. "The office is actually going to blow up, isn't it?" asked Gus.

Shawn took a deep breath and looked at the inner room. "Let's check in there, carefully," said Shawn, feeling the need to do something other than wait to be exploded or shot or whatever else the hitman had planned.

They moved into the room cautiously, eyes wide with fear. Shawn focused on everything he could as quickly as he could, but he didn't notice anything out of place. Gus walked over to his desk and sniffed, which made Shawn remember the smell. He sniffed too and felt a flash of recognition.

"What is that smell?" asked Gus, nose wrinkled. His back was to his desk as he spoke to Shawn. "There's something familiar about it."

"It smells like the reptile house at the zoo," said Shawn, gazing at the floor, half-expecting snakes to come slithering out or something. He felt a shiver run down his spine at the odd image. He looked back up at his friend.

Gus met his look as his face cleared. "Yes! But, why the hell does it smell like that?"

Shawn shrugged. Gus turned again and started to walk around his desk. Shawn's breath caught in his throat with a shock of horror. A giant spider was clinging to the back of Gus's shirt. It was as big as a man's hand.

"GUS!"

Gus jumped and spun to face Shawn again. "What?"

"OH MY GOD TURN AROUND!" yelled Shawn as he grabbed a magazine from his desk.

"WHAT? WHAT?" screamed Gus in a high-pitched voice as he spun once more and hunched over, trying desperately to hide from whatever the danger was.

Shawn ran up to him and swept the magazine down his back, getting the corner of it between the spider's legs and Gus's shirt and then flinging it so that the spider and the magazine both flew across the room to land in one of the chairs by the window. Gus turned again and saw the spider crawling on the chair. A high keen escaped his throat as he met Shawn's terrified gaze, then they both turned to the door at the same time. As they took a step, Shawn caught a flash of movement on his desk and saw another spider crawling across the surface. He pushed Gus away as they ran past and was horrified when the spider reared up on its back legs and held its front legs up like it was reaching for them.

"I think it wanted to jump on us!" hissed Shawn as they ran full tilt for the office door. Gus's keen only increased to a full-throated scream. Shawn's brain felt like it was melting from fear, and he joined Gus's screaming as they busted out the front door of the office and slammed it shut behind them.

Gus didn't pause at the door and kept running towards his car. Shawn paused just long enough to look around, but suddenly everything seemed fraught with danger. He followed his friend to the familiar car, unsure of where else to go. Just as they were running around the van to the blue car, Shawn heard Buzz shout. Gus still didn't wait. He jumped into the car and put his hands over his face. Shawn stood in front of the blue car, bouncing on his feet with agitation. He waved at Buzz who was just coming around the building again. He didn't see Baker.

"Buzz! Don't go in the office! That guy left giant spiders in there!"

Buzz's head whipped from Shawn to the office and back again, his incredulous look clear even from that distance, as he started to jog over. "Did you say spiders?"

"Yes! GIANT spiders! I'm serious, dude," said Shawn as he started to inch towards the passenger door. He felt exposed, and he wanted to get in the car for his own sake and Gus's. "They've gotta be poisonous man, they're this big!" He held up his hand with his fingers spread out before jumping into the car. Buzz reached the front of the van and keyed up his radio, looking from the car to the office with wide eyes. Shawn turned to Gus who was still hiding his face with his hands. "It didn't bite you, did it?"

Gus dropped his hands and stared at Shawn with horror. "Oh my god. I don't think so. I'd feel it, right?"

"Dude, it was as big as a poodle, I'm sure you'd feel it," said Shawn.

Gus drew in a shuddering breath. "Are we in some kind of horror movie?"

"More like a monster movie," corrected Shawn.

Gus put his hands together at the top of the steering wheel and lowered his head to rest on his arms. Shawn looked outside and saw Buzz and Baker talking and gesticulating and listening to their radios. He could imagine what kind of questions they were getting from the other end if they'd reported the spiders. He hoped they weren't being ordered to go into the office to confirm them. Shawn took in a lungful of air, feeling like he'd been forgetting to breathe. He looked back at Gus and saw a flash of bright green. All at once, he heard a soft hissing noise and registered the same smell from the office as his eyes focused on the green patch. It was on the steering column, just below Gus's arms, and it was moving. _Slithering_, he realized with the same stunning horror he'd felt in the office. He threw his arms out towards his friend, finally seeing the snake in full. It flashed again with lightning speed, an impossibly bright green blur, as it struck.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter sat in the chief's office and scanned a copy of the file he'd just been handed. He was focused on the information, but he also felt strangely buoyant. He realized he was happy. His headache had mostly retreated, finally, and his ear was only aching a little bit anymore. He was still on a high from Juliet's wakening, and now he was being given some of the information the FBI had on Sinclair. He still wasn't officially on the case, but the chief had relented and allowed him to sit in on her meeting after he'd brought in the picture. Things were definitely looking up.

"This is the preliminary information the Chicago office had for us," said Agent Sargent.

Lassiter had almost smirked when he'd been introduced to the agent earlier, flashing to a vision of the jokes Spencer would be saying about the FBI officer's name. For now, though, he mentally shook himself and tried to push aside his superfluous thoughts. If he was going to be kept in the loop, he'd have to show that he had even more relevant input to provide. Lassiter scanned the information and noted that none of the information was more recent than 1995. He asked about that fact.

"Yeah, he dropped off the radar in '95," said Sargent. "It was assumed that he'd either retired, or had been retired. Y'know."

Lassiter nodded. "Henry mentioned something about his methods," he said. "Or, rather, he said arson wasn't one of his methods." He flipped a page and found the information he'd been looking for. "Explosives and poisons."

"Correct. Actually, I believe he specialized in envenomations. Animal and insect based methods of poisoning people. He was pretty well known for his showmanship," said Sargent with a wry grimace. "He was one of the more flamboyant Chicago hitmen. He was also known for using disguises, one of the reasons he was so hard to catch."

Lassiter's brow furrowed. "So, he probably doesn't look like my description anymore?"

"I imagine he doesn't, although that scar on his nose will always be there, right?"

"If he doesn't cover it up somehow," said Lassiter with a frown. "Just wearing glasses would hide it pretty well."

"Does your Chicago office have any information about connections Sinclair has out here?" asked Chief Vick as she flipped through her own copy of the file.

"No. There are no connections with anyone named Hammond or Francis either. There are obviously still some pieces missing for us. We have sent the picture Detective Lassiter brought in today to their office, though. Hopefully they can run the other faces through the system and come up with something."

Lassiter nodded and looked from the agent to the chief. "There was another man in that picture who looked familiar to me, and to Spencer. We didn't get a chance to figure out why, yet."

"Which man?" asked the chief as she sat forward in her chair. Sargent stood up and moved to the desk as Lassiter pointed out the man in the picture that was laying on the top of the chief's files. "Okay, Agent Sargent, can you make sure that man is the first one checked?"

"I'll do that," said Sargent with a nod.

A sudden bustling sound came from outside the office and they all looked up in curiosity. Several people were running through the bullpen, and then a uniformed officer knocked on the chief's door while opening it, not waiting for an invitation.

"Chief! A call came in from McNab and Baker. There's been another incident at the Psych office, and they've requested backup."

"The Psych office? What are they doing there? What's the nature of the incident?"

"I'm not sure, Chief. There was mention of a suspicious man, and then a few minutes later they called in something about giant spiders."

Lassiter blinked and glanced at the chief and Sargent who had expressions of confusion that mirrored his own befuddlement. "Spiders?" he asked the officer.

"Yes, sir," said the officer with a helpless look.

Lassiter looked at Sargent again and saw the man put his hand to his mouth as he looked at the Sinclair file. Then Lassiter remembered the methods he'd mentioned. Poisons from animals and insects. Sargent looked up and met his gaze, and he knew they were thinking the same thing. Apparently the chief was on the same wavelength as well.

"Get an ambulance over there, right away," she ordered the officer. "And tell them not to approach the spiders. Call animal control as well and inform them we might have poisonous spiders to contain. Go!"

The officer ran off to the nearest phone without another word. The chief picked up her own phone and called to see if any other information had come in from McNab and Baker. Sargent left the office to confer with his partner who was using Juliet's desk. Lassiter stood in the middle of the room feeling immensely frustrated. He wanted to run out to his car and drive over to the Psych office to see what was happening. He couldn't believe that Sinclair had struck again already. Although, they'd decided that he probably hadn't been involved in the arson attempts the previous night. So where had he been? He may have actually gone home after the car bomb, but then whoever had hired him had called him back in, and it had taken him some time to get back. Perhaps he'd had to prepare this new attack, with spiders, of all things? Where had he gotten giant spiders? And why had they tried to set the fires? Just to keep them off-balance, maybe. This guy's game, whoever he was, was based on deflection and sneak-attack, and he liked to hit hard and fast. He hadn't wanted to wait for Sinclair to get back before dealing another blow. Only now, he seemed to be focusing his attacks on Shawn, for some reason.

"There's been more information from McNab," said the chief grimly as she hung up her phone. "He didn't just plant spiders at the office. He also planted a snake in Mr. Guster's car."

**OoOoOoO**

Gus had his eyes closed tight as he tried to calm his racing heart. He was resting his head on his arms, with his hands on the steering wheel. It was taking all of his resolve to keep from starting the car and driving as far away from the office as he could go. The image of those hideous, giant spiders dominated his brain, so he opened his eyes again to get rid of it. Just as he opened his eyes and started to sit back, though, he heard a strange hissing sound. From the corner of his eye he saw Shawn shifting in his seat and then saw his arms flailing towards Gus as if he was going to hit him. Everything happened so fast, Gus's brain had trouble keeping up. Shawn didn't hit him but shoved him backwards with one arm while his other arm swept up to push Gus's hands off of the steering wheel. At the same moment, a strange green blur flashed through the air and seemed to attach itself to Shawn's wrist. It had come from the steering column. Gus blinked in horror as he finally saw the thing for what it was, a bright green snake.

"Shawn! Shawn!" yelled Gus as Shawn hissed in pain.

"Gah! Get it off!" screeched Shawn as he grabbed at the reptile that was still latched onto the outside of his right wrist just below his hand.

Gus reached out and grasped the snake, and together he and Shawn pulled it off of Shawn's arm, both of them screaming the whole time.

"Move!" yelled Shawn, and Gus scrambled at his door handle, pushing it open and jumping out of the car as quick as he could go. He turned and saw Shawn throw the wriggling creature into the back seat before bailing out of the passenger door. They both slammed their doors again. Their gazes met over the roof of the car, shared expressions of pure terror.

"Shawn," said Gus. He felt a cold fear flooding his chest as he remembered the snake attached to his friend's arm. "Shawn, it bit you."

Shawn nodded, looking pale and wobbly. Buzz and Officer Baker ran over to them, asking what had happened.

"There's a snake in there," said Gus as he walked around his car to stand next to them. "It bit Shawn."

"Sit down," Buzz said to Shawn as he looked him over. He put his hand on Shawn's elbow as Shawn held up his right hand to show off the angry, red puncture marks. "Sit."

"It bit me," said Shawn as he finally sat down on the curb of the parking lot.

Gus and Buzz exchanged a worried look. Officer Baker had stepped back to call the station again. Gus heard him use the term "snake bite." The coldness in his chest was creeping down into his stomach.

"Shawn, are you okay? Do you feel okay?" asked Gus, unsure of how quickly snake venom acted. He knew it depended on the snake, but he didn't know what species had bitten Shawn. "Do you feel anything?"

Shawn's brow furrowed and he blinked rapidly for a moment, as if trying to focus his thoughts. "Um, well, it hurts where the teeth went in," he said.

"Fangs," corrected Gus.

"Really, Gus? Now's the time to correct me?" griped Shawn as his face contorted in pain. "It hurts where the fangs went in. Really bad."

"Sorry."

"I just...I don't know. How quick does snake poison work?"

Gus stopped himself from saying "venom" and instead just said, "It depends on the snake."

"Well, what kind of a snake was that?"

Buzz and Baker were both peering into the windows of the car. "It's gone under the seat, now," said Baker.

"It was green," said Buzz.

"Gee, thanks, Buzz, but I'd kinda gotten that much," said Shawn. Then he winced and put his left hand on his face as his right hand rested in his lap. "Oh man."

"What?" asked Gus. He looked over and saw Buzz run off towards his squad car.

"Nothing. I don't know. I just can't believe how much this sucks," said Shawn dejectedly. He winced again and Gus suspected that he was in even more pain than he'd admitted to. "Spiders and snakes. I'm never going to be able to watch _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ again."

"I hear that," said Gus as he eased down to sit next to his friend. He heard sirens in the distance and put a hand on Shawn's shoulder. "We'll get through this, Shawn. Try to relax. The ambulance is almost here. You're going to be okay."

Shawn nodded. "I'm sorry you didn't get to call 911 this time," he said, the slight tremble in his voice belying the light tone he was attempting. "Your call streak is broken."

"Yeah," said Gus, feeling suddenly choked up. He couldn't think of anything to say to continue the joke, which made him feel like he was failing his friend. His friend since childhood, his friend who had just saved him from being bitten by a snake, and who had taken the bite instead, and who he wasn't sure was really going to be okay now. Buzz started running back towards them with a first aid kit in his hand. Gus put his arm around Shawn's shoulders a little tighter as they listened to the sirens wail.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Lassiter knew the answer already as he met the chief's shocked gaze, but he asked anyway. "Was anyone bitten?"

She nodded and said simply, "Shawn."

"What kind of snake?" he asked as he felt a heavy lump form in his throat. Who was going to tell Henry? The thought of Henry, though, made his heart race for a different reason. The arson attempts had targeted both Shawn and Henry the previous night. And now Shawn had been poisoned.

"They're not sure yet," said the chief, but Lassiter hardly heard her words as he turned and rushed out of the office. "Where are you going?"

"Henry," said Lassiter as he ran to his desk phone. He asked for a connection to Henry's current guard and was patched through to the officer.

The chief came to his desk as the connection was being made. "You think Sinclair will try to hit him too?"

"Maybe," he said with a shrug. Then the call went through. "Hendricks? This is Lassiter. Have you seen Henry Spencer this morning? Where are you? You need to get in that house immediately. Watch out for snakes or spiders or anything suspicious. YES, I said snakes and spiders. Go NOW!" He hung up and started for the main doors.

"Lassiter," said the chief.

"I'm sorry, chief, but I need to make sure," he called over his shoulder.

"Be careful," she said, voice tinged with exasperation and despair. "I'll send whatever backup we have available."

He pushed through the doors of the station and almost jumped down the steps. For the whole drive, his mind was in turmoil with wondering what had happened to Shawn. The story seemed so bizarre, first the report of spiders and then a snake in Guster's car. Whatever the case, Sinclair had succeeded. Shawn had been hit. He hoped the bite was something they could manage. They would surely have an antidote at the hospital. He kept trying, unsuccessfully, to convince himself of that. His thoughts turned to what Henry's reaction would be, if he hadn't been attacked again himself. And then he thought of Juliet. He could already see the look of disappointment she would give him if he had to tell her he'd let Shawn get hurt, or worse. He gritted his teeth and tried to block out his thoughts, focusing on the road instead.

He pulled up to Henry's house next to Hendrick's squad car and jumped out. The cruiser was empty, and he didn't see anyone around. He ran to the kitchen door and found it already open, so he reached down and pulled out his weapon. He was still wearing the ankle holster since it felt so much less conspicuous at the hospital. Also, he'd just never gotten around to retrieving his other shoulder holster from home. His favorite had been cut off by the EMTs when they'd treated him after the explosion, and he'd hardly been home long enough since then to grab his backup set.

"Henry?" he called as he stepped into the kitchen. He listened, but he couldn't hear anything in the house.

He moved through the kitchen and glanced into the living room, but nothing seemed amiss. His stomach fluttered as the adrenalin started coursing through him. Turning to the hallway, he walked slowly towards Henry's bedroom. The silence was eerie, and he wondered how much of it was exaggerated by his bum ear. Nothing was out of place in the small bathroom he passed, so he focused on the bedroom door as he got closer. He entered the room and found that the bed, placed up against the wall on his left, had its sheets thrown mostly off to the floor on the far side. Something had happened here. He stepped gingerly around the base of the bed to check the pile of blankets and sheets, dreading what he might find there, but there was no body or anything else. He stood still for a moment, trying to figure out what had happened, when he heard a soft hissing noise. He turned his head, wondering where the sound was coming from. It was like the sound of air leaking out of a tire. He thought he saw something move in the darkness under a small lamp table several feet away in the corner of the room. He leaned over slightly, trying to squint to see into the darkness, and when he turned his left ear towards that corner the hissing seemed to get louder. It was another snake, he realized with a sick feeling in his stomach.

There was a sudden bang that made him jump, and the sound of running footsteps. He looked up to see Henry rushing into the room brandishing a flat-edged shovel. "Lassiter, what are you doing here? Watch out!"

"It's under there," he started to say, feeling that he was surely far enough away from the creature. He was at least five feet from the table, but then he saw the blur of movement and flinched as something flew at his leg. It was a big snake, and it seemed to soar across the distance before it struck him in the ankle. He tried to jump away, then, but he knew he was already too late as he only managed to stumble backwards into a dresser. The snake had been lightning-fast.

Henry jumped up onto the bed and raised the shovel in two hands, blade-down, watching as the snake pulled back for another strike. He heaved the shovel downwards and into the back of the snake, cutting it in two just as Lassiter had found his balance and was trying to bring his gun to bear on the reptile. The snake's corpse twitched on the floor. Lassiter looked up and met Henry's almost crazed-looking red eyes, then he noticed Hendricks standing in the doorway as well. They all just looked at each other for a shocked moment.

"What the hell were you doing?" cried Henry, giving Lassiter a look of irritation.

"What do you mean? I was coming to warn you," said Lassiter indignantly, matching Henry's look with a scowl of his own. "After what happened to..." He stopped himself, but he could see the damage had been done. Henry's eyes widened and Lassiter held his arms out at his sides in a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry, Henry. Shawn and Gus were attacked again, too. Shawn was bitten."

Henry dropped the shovel and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Oh my god," he breathed.

Lassiter looked at Hendricks who seemed confused and uncomfortable. "Go call this in," he said, wanting the officer to leave them alone.

"But, sir," started Hendricks.

"What?"

"Were you bit?"

Lassiter blinked and looked down at his leg. "Oh," he said as he stepped over to the bed and put his foot up on it. He could see two small holes in his pants, and when he pulled them up, he saw two dents in his leather ankle holster with some liquid rolling down from them. His stomach felt like it had turned to ice. He swallowed with some difficulty at the image of how close he'd come and had to clear his throat before he could speak. "I guess not."

Henry was looking at the bite marks and shaking his head. "Jesus," was all he said.

"Okay, sir," said Hendricks as he went to make his report.

"Take me to the hospital," said Henry.

Lassiter nodded and took a deep breath as he put the gun back in its holster and put his foot down again. He wondered if there were any other creepy-crawlies in the house. Shawn and Gus had been hit with spiders and snakes both, so he figured he should warn Hendricks to keep the house closed up until animal control could check it thoroughly. He looked around again and noticed a small circular hole in one of the bedroom windows. It was a window that wouldn't have been visible to Hendricks or whoever else had been sitting in a car guarding the house that night. Sinclair had been here first, then, since the reports had said they'd seen the suspicious man at the Psych office. He'd put the snake into Henry's bedroom here, then he'd gone to the office.

"What happened? How did you figure out there was a snake in here?" asked Lassiter as Henry remained sitting, shoulders bowed.

"I got up to pee," said Henry. "I felt a draft when I came back, and I saw that hole. Then I saw my blanket move. The damn thing had crawled up under my cover and was curled up next to me. Luckily I tuck my sheets in, so the sheet was between me and the snake. I threw the covers aside and saw it go over with the blanket, so that's when I ran out to the garage. Hendricks was just coming in and said you'd called and told him to check on me. You'd warned him about spiders and snakes." Henry rubbed at his face for a moment and then looked up at Lassiter again. "So, it was a snake?"

Lassiter knew he wasn't asking about the carcass on the floor. "Yeah. They were both at the Psych office. I'm still not sure why. They said there was a suspicious man there. Had to have been Sinclair. Then they reported giant spiders in the office. After that, they called again and said there was a snake in Guster's car and Shawn had been bitten."

"What kind of snake?"

"I don't know. What kind is this one?"

"I don't know. I hate to say it, but I swear it looks like a cobra," he said with an incredulous look at Lassiter who just shivered at the thought.

"Jesus."

Henry nodded, then he drew in a breath and stood up. "Let's go."

As they headed out to the car, Lassiter paused to tell Hendricks about the possibility of other pests and gave him instructions. He told him to stay at the house until backup arrived. Then he climbed into the driver's seat as Henry rubbed at his eyes in the passenger seat. They pulled out and headed towards the hospital. Lassiter called in, but they were only told that Shawn had been taken to the ER and they didn't know any more details. Henry kept a hand over his mouth as he stared out the windshield. Several minutes of silence passed, but then Henry cleared his throat.

"Um, listen, Lassiter. I'm sorry about what I said last night."

"Yeah, me too," said Lassiter, squirming with discomfort. "I took the picture to Vick this morning. The FBI is already investigating."

Henry nodded and kept his eyes on the road. Lassiter sighed and felt a heaviness in his heart. As much as the two Spencers rubbed him wrong, he never wanted to see them in this kind of situation. Granted, Shawn's antics landed him in hot water often enough, but usually not this deep. Other than the time he'd been shot and kidnapped, he'd been able to get away from danger relatively unscathed. And despite his condescending moments, Lassiter still felt a connection to Henry through his service on the force. He found himself driven to find Sinclair and whoever had hired him as much for the sake of Shawn and Henry, now, as he was on Juliet's behalf. These people had done enough damage. They were menaces to society, and he was determined to bring them to justice. The pool of anger he'd been drawing on since the explosion was hardening into a flinty resolve.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn felt trapped. He just wanted to escape. Get up, walk out, get on his bike and ride...listen to a few Queen songs...drink a case of beer so he could forget the throbbing pain in his arm and the sick feeling in his stomach. His right arm was wrapped up with gauze and ace bandages. They'd told him to keep it as still as possible. They'd given him antibiotics and some basic painkillers, but it had only dulled the pain a little. He licked his lips and put his left arm over his eyes.

"Shawn?" asked Gus, for the billionth time.

"Gus, I love you, man, but if you don't stop saying my name like that I'm going to find that stash of _Tiger Beat_ magazines I know you still have and put them out for recycling," said Shawn through gritted teeth.

The silence was deafening, which only made him feel worse. He was losing it, big time.

"I'm sorry, Gus," he said softly. He wondered if the snake had poisoned him with some kind of Jekyll and Hyde venom.

"I know," said Gus soberly. "I am too."

Shawn knew, had known since the moment the fangs sank into his arm, that Gus was blaming himself, that he felt guilty Shawn had taken the bite instead of him. He didn't know what to do to make his friend stop feeling that way. He could only hope he'd get over it, because at the moment he was having too much trouble getting over his own predicament. There was no way he'd ever wish that Gus was going through this ordeal instead of him, but he really, really, really wished he wasn't going through it himself.

They'd been stuck in the ER room for almost two hours. Initially, the doctor had assured him that once they had the snake's species, they'd know how to treat him. But then there had been no word from anyone, for forever. The only interruption in the agonizingly boring storm of anxiety being the entrance of his father and Lassie a half hour earlier which had totally made everything so calm and relaxing. After about five minutes, they'd been shooed out of the ER cubby by a nurse Shawn now considered a saint for enduring them that entire five minutes. He'd heard his father's gruff demands for information receding down the hallway, then, as they'd gone off to find his doctor. He sighed. Gus stirred in the chair at his left elbow and drew in a breath, but then he just cleared his throat. Finally, he heard voices beyond the curtain they laughingly considered a privacy screen, and then the flimsy veil parted to reveal his dad and Lassie and the doctor. They were all looking at him like he was already dead.

"Um, I think you have the wrong room," he said as he tried to sit up a little in the reclined bed. "Nothing to see here, move along."

"Shawn, please don't crack jokes," said his dad as he started to pace the three-steps worth of space next to the bed.

"Fine. Tell me what the hell is going on then," snapped Shawn.

Lassiter's eyebrows raised as he stood behind the doctor. He looked like he wanted to escape, which Shawn could identify with. He also looked like he wanted to cry. Shawn almost wished he would so he could laugh at him. He needed to laugh at something.

"Mr. Spencer," said the doctor. "I'm sorry we left you waiting. We've had some trouble identifying the snake." He stopped for one of those pregnant pauses doctors on television always took which confirmed what Shawn had always suspected...television WAS reality. "It's not a local species. We had to call around and discovered that it's only indigenous in Southern Africa."

"Wow, maybe it's over here for a work-study thing? Semester abroad?" said Shawn, attempting a light tone. He was pretty sure he sounded like a dying frog. He couldn't stop the slight cracking of his voice.

"It's called a Boomslang."

Gus drew in a sharp breath, and Shawn just rolled his eyes. Of course Gus would know the name. And what kind of a name was that for a snake anyway? Seriously.

"Tell it I'm sorry about that," said Shawn. Henry huffed and rubbed his face with one hand, swiping at his eyes. "So, what's the verdict, or the prognostication, or whatever it's called."

"Prognosis," said Gus.

The doctor said, "Well, the venom of this species works slowly. We have time to try to procure the antivenom, we hope. There is still a chance the snake did not deliver its poison on the bite, what's called a 'dry bite,' but with the potency of this particular venom, we can't take the chance."

Shawn felt like his throat was lined with sandpaper as he tried to swallow. "What does the venom do?"

"It's a hemotoxin, which means it prevents blood from clotting," said the doctor.

"That doesn't sound so bad," said Shawn as he looked from the doctor to Gus. Their expressions quashed his brief hope. "I can't just try to not get a cut?"

"It'll cause you to bleed internally," said Gus in a strange monotone. Shawn looked at him and saw the blank stare on his face.

"Mr. Guster is correct. If the venom is in your system and you don't receive the antivenom, you will bleed to death," said the doctor with a sincere frown. Shawn wished he'd added another pregnant pause in that last sentence, one that lasted forever.

"Okay, so, where do we get the anti-whatever for this boomerang snake?" asked Shawn. He was feeling suddenly lightheaded and wondered if the snake's venom was already starting to work.

"We're trying to find some now."

"You don't know where to find it?" squeaked Shawn.

"We've contacted the Poison Control center. They're calling zoos and universities, and they've also contacted the South African health ministry. There are not too many of these snakes around here."

"They're on the case, Shawn," said Henry, finally stopping to look at him. "They'll find some." His expression looked as far from confident as Shawn had ever seen his dad look.

"Yeah," said Shawn, feeling the shock of the information finally sinking in. "You said the venom worked slowly. How slowly?"

"It's possible you won't have any symptoms for 24 hours, or even more."

Shawn blinked. "THAT'S slowly?"

"Well, yes, compared to the alternative. If you and Mr. Guster here had been bitten by the spiders instead, you might already be dead. Those were Brazilian Wandering Spiders. They have a very potent venom, a neurotoxin that acts much more quickly, which leaves little time for tracking down an antidote. These were the nastiest creatures I've ever seen," said the doctor with a small shiver.

Shawn felt a giggle almost escape. He wanted to say something about how them's the breaks for a fake psychic who riles up a shadowy and obviously batshit insane hitman, but he managed to stop himself. "Okay then," he said instead. "What do I do now?"

"Rest. We're finding you a room right now. We need to keep you under observation, and as soon as the antivenom arrives we need to administer it immediately. You may eventually need transfusions, and possibly a course of dialysis to help remove the toxins from your system."

"Sounds awesome," said Shawn. His brain felt like it was ready to shut down now. He didn't want to think anymore.

The doctor nodded and turned to leave them all staring at their own shoelaces. Shawn leaned back and gazed at the ceiling tiles, picking out shapes in the patterns of small holes. As he did so, a pattern clarified in his mind. "Sinclair's been shadowing me since yesterday. He looked different every time I saw him, changed his hair and clothes. But he had the same sunglasses on each time. It was him at the office," he said. "We saw him. We almost touched him...well, Gus did. The sunglasses hid the scar."

Lassiter entered his field of vision, his blue eyes almost glowing. "Can you give me a description?"

"He has a buzz cut now, flat-top, no beard. Not sure what else to describe. He was wearing overalls."

Lassiter scowled. "Yeah, they found the overalls on the ground behind your car, and the tool box with three empty cloth sacks inside."

"Three? One for the spiders and one for the snake," said Shawn. "Was there some other creepy-crawlie in the office?"

Lassiter's face went pale and he looked over at Henry whose face had reddened.

"He went after you too?" hissed Shawn as he sat up, understanding their silent exchange immediately. "What was it?"

Henry closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Dad!"

"Cobra."

"Not the G.I. Joe kind of Cobra, I'm guessing," said Shawn. "What the hell, man. Where does this guy get all of these things?"

"He keeps them, raises them, uses them or their poison..." said Lassiter, trailing off with a grimace. "It was in his FBI file. They managed to find one of his collections years ago in Chicago before he was able to destroy it. That was as close as anyone's gotten to catching him."

Shawn put his left arm over his eyes once more, finding himself almost wishing the maniac had just shot him instead of this. It seemed so much cleaner, and quicker. He supposed that must be the point, if a psychopath could have a point. He realized he was starring in his own version of _DOA_, and now there was yet another movie he'd never be able to watch again.

**OoOoOoO**

The old man coughed and adjusted the oxygen tank on the seat next to him. He was grumpy and fidgeting, and Bob could tell something was bothering him. His behavior was starting to increase Bob's anxiety which was already heightened after the conversation with Sinclair the previous morning.

"Morton, you don't usually ask to go for a drive. What is it?" he asked, dreading the answer. They were driving around a small park not far from Morton's apartment, and had been making the circuit for the past ten minutes.

"Bob, I think we need to do something about Ferdinand's cousin," said Morton.

Bob felt his heart leap into his throat. "What?" he hissed. "No, Morton! What are you talking about?" He felt suddenly shaky and pulled the car over into a parking space on the street before turning to his old friend.

The old man bared his teeth as a low, growling sound came from his throat. "He could give us up," he said, refusing to meet Bob's eyes.

"If he hasn't done it yet, he won't," said Bob desperately. "What got this idea into your head?"

"Loose ends are no good," said Morton.

Bob realized, suddenly, what must have happened. "Did Sinclair tell you this? Did he suggest this?"

Morton flashed him an angry glare. "What does it matter? It's true."

"No, it isn't! That boy has done an exceptional job, and he's still doing it. If he'd given us up, the cops would've been at our place yesterday," argued Bob. "Please don't let Sinclair's twisted mindset infect you." He was toeing a line he rarely ever approached, but the recent events had started to get out of hand, and he was tired of it.

Morton's face reddened and his eyes narrowed. "He said you might say that."

Bob was stunned. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't find the words for a few long moments. "Morton," he finally croaked. "Do you doubt me? Do you doubt my loyalty?"

The old man's expression registered shock for a moment, then softened slightly and almost seemed tinged with confusion. "No, Bob. No," he said. He seemed to deflate and sat back in the seat. "No." Then he suffered a brief coughing fit.

Bob patted his friend's back and regarded him as a tumultuous mixture of concern and exasperation and desperate fear roiled inside. Somehow everything had started to unravel, the threads of their comfortable lifestyle fraying dangerously. Sure, it was essentially exile, but it had been a pleasant one all these years. The three of them, when Gladys was alive, and now the two of them...but it had never just been as simple as that. Bob had worked hard to make it that way, but the loose threads had always come back to threaten the peace. Maxwell. Forever the spoiler. The weak spot in Morton's armor. And now it was because of Maxwell that the poison of Sinclair had infected them as well. Why hadn't he warned Morton off of calling in the psychopath from the start? Why hadn't he foreseen these results? He sighed and saw clearly, finally, the steps needed to set everything straight again, or as straight as he'd been able to set them all of those years ago when he'd saved his friend the first time.

"Morton," he began with a confidence in his tone that he didn't truly feel inside. "I will set things right. Trust me, my friend."

Morton looked at him with narrowed eyes. "How?"

Bob pursed his lips and didn't answer. He wasn't entirely certain yet, himself, but he had some ideas. His brain had been mulling them since the donut shop meeting. The instinct for self-preservation was a wonderful thing.

"Oh, fine," said the old man, as ever leaving the mundane details of his life to the man he'd known since childhood, the man who had always stood in his shadow providing rock-solid support. He looked tired. He looked ready for the "last hurrah" to be finished. He looked old. "Do what you need to do."

Bob nodded and pulled back onto the road. He felt a wave of relief wash through him and realized how agitated and off-balance he'd been feeling since the whole situation began. He was back in balance now, though, and he had a simple and straightforward idea of how get everything back on track.

"Let's get you home for lunch," said Bob cheerfully. "You're hungry, and whatever Ferdinand has cooking smelled wonderful."

The old man sighed again and gave his friend a small smile. "You're right, Bob. I'm famished," he said. "You're always right."

They drove back to the old man's apartment, but when they arrived, Bob said that he couldn't join him for lunch despite how good it smelled. He had an important errand to run first. He told his oldest and dearest friend that he would see him at dinner. The old man patted his companion on the arm as he was helped to his door, then gave him a wave goodbye.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Henry liked to think of himself as being in good shape for his age. He kept active and was rarely sick. But walking down the hospital hallway, he was pretty certain he was suffering a heart attack. He wiped at his eyes, almost grateful that the lingering gasoline irritation provided an excuse for why he kept having to swipe away moisture. It had been one hell of a morning to top off just about the worst week in a long time, probably since Maddie left...he sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. When he looked up again, he saw Lassiter looking at him with concern and discomfort, and he kicked himself for getting emotional.

"Here's the room," said Lassiter gruffly.

Henry was glad he hadn't asked what was wrong or if he was okay or any of those other ridiculous questions that had patently obvious answers. He nodded and opened the door of the room they'd finally gotten Shawn settled in. They'd all been at the hospital for almost four hours. Shawn had been moved to a room an hour or so earlier, and then they'd asked them to leave for a while so they could do some tests on him. Henry had gone to the cafeteria with Lassiter to grab some lunch that had tasted like sawdust.

Lassiter paused at the door. "I'm going to check on Juliet, then I'm going to the station to see if they've made any progress on tracking down Sinclair or his contacts."

"Will you let me know if they've had any breakthroughs?" asked Henry.

"Of course," said Lassiter with a nod.

Henry nodded as well. "If they chase me out of here again, I might stop by myself," he said gruffly.

Lassiter raised a hand as if he was going to pat Henry on the shoulder, but then a look of uncertainty flashed across his face and he just gave a small wave instead. "Hang in there." He turned and headed down the hallway to the stairs because Shawn's room was only one level above Juliet's. Henry drew in a deep breath and walked through the door. Shawn looked smaller, somehow, lying in the hospital bed. The wrapping on his arm reminded Henry of the time he'd broken his humerus when he was a kid. The look on his face did too. He looked scared and bored and pale and fidgety, and it made Henry want to go out and buy him some ice cream sandwiches.

"Hey, dad," said Shawn. "Guess what. I'm clotting. You should be proud. Apparently it's a good thing. I'm hoping they'll give me a Best In Clotting trophy."

"It's great," said Gus. "It means the venom hasn't affected you. Maybe it was a dry bite after all."

"That's good to hear," said Henry, feeling a small flash of hope. The dread was still overwhelming, though. The doctors had said it could take up to two days for the symptoms to show. Still, the longer it took, the more likely they'd be able to get a supply of the antivenom. "How are you feeling otherwise?"

"Starving," said Shawn. "I'm craving ice cream sandwiches. Remember that time I broke my arm?"

Henry smiled and nodded.

"Hey, I was thinking about that picture of Sinclair. There was a guy in it I said looked familiar."

"Yeah. I didn't get to look at the picture since you've said that," said Henry.

"I know. Lassie did, though, right before he took it to the station this morning. I think I know where I've seen him, now," said Shawn with a flash of excitement in his eyes. "There was this really old guy at the station when I was arrested, y'know, when we were talking. I saw him going into the bathrooms. He had a walker and an oxygen tank. I'm almost positive he's the guy in the picture."

Henry squinted. He remembered a pair of old men by the entrance of the station that day, but he hadn't focused on them. "Really?"

Gus's face brightened. "I remember now. Those two old men were sitting on that bench when we were talking to the desk sergeant. I got a pretty good look at them. The guy with the walker caught my eye because he was wearing Italian leather shoes."

Henry and Shawn looked at him with confused expressions.

"They were very expensive shoes. And I'm pretty sure he had a Rolex as well," said Gus who then shrugged. "It just seemed odd. Come to think of it, they were there when we arrived."

"Really?" said Shawn. "And there was two of them? Were they just hanging out, watching the action at the police station instead of playing Bingo or Shasta or whatever?"

Gus shrugged. "I think you mean Canasta. And I have no idea what they were doing there."

"Maybe we should find out," said Henry. He suddenly had a feeling about those men. If Shawn recognized one of them from the picture, they could both be in the picture. And if they'd had some kind of contact with Sinclair decades ago, they could be the ones who'd hired him now. He felt a tingling down his spine at the idea that the man who'd caused all of this might've been sitting in the station watching them that day.

"Oh my god," breathed Shawn. "Could that be the guy? I mean THE guy, the guy? And he was sitting right there..."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," said Henry, feeling his blood starting to boil as his own brain was doing just that. "I'm going to catch Lassiter and go to the station with him. We'll check this out."

Shawn started to sit up and swing his legs over the bed.

"Shawn! You stay here," ordered Henry, his voice sounded sharper than he'd meant, but his emotions were starting to roil.

"Are you kidding me?" argued Shawn, irritated by Henry's tone. "I'm not just going to sit here..."

"Shawn, please," said Gus as he stood up and put out his hands in a calming gesture. "You can't run around. It might aggravate the spread of the venom."

"We're not even sure I have venom!" cried Shawn.

"We're not sure you don't, either," said Gus.

"Look, Shawn," said Henry, making an effort to calm his voice. "I'm sorry, son, but I don't think you should go. I'm just going to catch a ride with Lassiter and we'll look at the picture. Maybe we can bring it back to you, okay? We'll talk to Karen and tell her what you said."

Shawn gave them both a look of agonized frustration. "Dammit," he hissed as he pulled his legs back up onto the bed. "Just, call us as soon as you've told them."

"I will," said Henry. "Please, try to relax." He walked over and gave Shawn a quick hug.

"You too," said Shawn. "You look a little stressed. You need a spa day."

Henry smirked and shook his head as he walked out of the room. He made his way to the stairs, hoping that Lassiter hadn't finished visiting with Juliet yet.

**OoOoOoO**

As Lassiter approached Juliet's room, he noticed a nurse walk out of her door and stride quickly to the desk. His heart skipped a beat and he quickened his pace, watching as the nurse began to dial her phone. When she saw him coming, she paused.

"Detective, I was just calling the doctor in. She's awake again," she said with a gleam in her eyes. Lassiter had come to appreciate how much the nurses who'd been working with Juliet seemed to be pulling for her and were almost as excited by good news as he was.

"Can I go see her?" he asked, feeling breathless. This particular dose of good news seemed to be making his heart skip even worse.

The nurse nodded as her call connected. He pushed the door open slowly, not wanting to startle his partner. She was still reclined, and her eyes were closed, so he was afraid she'd fallen back asleep. But at the sound of the door, she opened her eyes and turned her head towards him.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey," he said with what he figured was probably a goofy-looking grin, but he couldn't help himself. He stepped up to the side of the bed and put his hand on her shoulder briefly. "It's good to see you awake."

"Carlton," she said. She seemed hesitant and not 100% lucid, and he wondered if she wasn't certain who he was. The doctor had warned that her faculties might be impaired for a while after waking.

"Yes, it's me. Carlton," he said, feeling odd saying his own name like that to his own partner.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

He blinked. "Um, yeah. I'm fine."

"Is everything okay? I'm not sure what happened."

"Don't worry about that right now. Everything's fine," he fibbed. There was no way he'd tell her the truth in that moment. He couldn't allow her to worry about anything, or anyone, in her state. "You just need to rest and get your strength back."

"Did I get hurt?"

He sighed and felt suddenly helpless. "Yes, Juliet. You were hurt and you're in the hospital, but you're going to be okay."

"And everyone else is okay?" she asked with a tinge of fear and confusion in her eyes as she started to process everything. She glanced around the room vaguely, as if looking for more clues to her situation.

He just pursed his lips and nodded, hating to say the lie again out loud. Finally, the doctor entered, saving him from the discomfort of the situation even as he felt the regret that he was going to have to leave his partner again. The doctor nodded at him with that dismissive look they must learn in med school.

"Juliet, I'll be back later. Listen to the doc here, and get lots of rest," said Lassiter with a last touch to her shoulder. He forced a small smile. "That's an order, partner."

"Carlton," she said as he was turning to leave. He spun back, eyebrows raised. She gave him a concerned look. "Be careful."

His breath caught in his throat, but he forced the smile again and nodded. When he turned to the door, he wiped his hand across his face. How was he ever going to be able to tell her...what? He wasn't even sure what was going to happen. Maybe everything would work out fine, Spencer would be okay, and he wouldn't have to worry about telling her. He stepped into the hallway and saw Henry walking his direction with a determined look on his face. When Henry saw him, he stopped and waved him over. Lassiter felt a familiar flash of irritation, but he shook it off as he joined him.

"Lassiter, Shawn remembered something," said Henry, then he stopped himself when he saw the look on the detective's face. "Is Juliet alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, she's great. She's awake," said Lassiter.

"Wow," said Henry as his eyebrows shot up. "Thank goodness."

"So what did Shawn remember?"

"You know the guy that he said looked familiar in the picture? He thinks it was that old man who was at the station the morning he was arrested."

Lassiter's brow furrowed. "Old man," he said, trying to recall. He'd been pretty shaken up still, that morning after the explosion. Then he remembered the two geezers sitting near the entrance and the creepy, bug-eyed one giving him strange looks. "THAT guy? He thinks that's the guy in the picture?"

Henry shrugged. "I don't know. We need to go get it. Maybe we can bring it back here for Shawn to see again," said Henry hopefully, then he grimaced. "He wanted to come along."

Lassiter could just imagine Shawn's reaction to having to stay in the hospital. He realized Henry was probably worried that Shawn might skip out if they didn't try to include him in the investigation somehow.

"Okay, let's go. I want to see it again myself," he said as they started towards the elevators. "If he's in that old photo with Sinclair..."

"He might be connected to him now," finished Henry.

"It can't be a coincidence," growled Lassiter. The image of the old man laughing at them that morning reignited his fury, and he punched the elevator button harder than necessary.

"Easy, tiger," said Henry.

Lassiter glared at him. "You're kidding, right?"

Henry held up his hands. "Just hang on," he said in what he must've thought was his peacemaking tone. "I know what you're feeling, believe me. But if we're going to catch this guy, and Sinclair, we have to keep our emotions in check."

Lassiter bit his tongue and drew a breath in through his nose as the elevator opened and they stepped inside. He wondered if the elder Spencer even knew how condescending he sounded sometimes. He drew in another breath, not confident of having control yet over his reaction. He remembered all of the times O'Hara lectured him about sounding arrogant and condescending, and he sighed, finally getting past the flash of anger. He knew Henry had to be fighting his emotions as well with his only son's life possibly in grave danger. So, if Henry could do it, he wasn't about to be shown up. As they walked out to his car, he thought about the most recent developments in the case and what he'd learned in the meeting with the FBI earlier.

He cleared his throat and said, "I already pointed the guy out to the FBI. They were going to give his identification priority, so hopefully they've figured it out by now. I'm sure he's using an alias, here, but maybe we'll get lucky and they'll have something else we can use to track him down."

Henry nodded. "That's good. If we can find him, maybe he'll give up Sinclair and we can go to his place."

"Sinclair's?"

"Yeah," said Henry. "You mentioned that he had all of these bugs and snakes in a place before. I was thinking that if he has such dangerous stuff around, he might take precautions."

Lassiter's eyebrows raised. "Like keeping antidotes in stock? That's a good idea. We can check that file I read earlier and confirm. But we still have to find Sinclair's place. Even if we can find this old man, he might not give up the location, or even know it, for that matter."

Henry just grimaced in acknowledgment as they climbed in the car. They were both silent for the drive to the station.

**OoOoOoO**

Buzz was sitting on the low wall near the SBPD's front steps eating his lunch somewhat late and enjoying the sunshine. He'd seen Detective Lassiter and Henry Spencer arrive about a half hour earlier and wondered what they were doing inside. He felt so bad about what had happened to Shawn under his guard. The chief had even called him in to assure him that she believed he'd done the best he could, and who would've thought to check for snakes in the little blue car anyway? Still, he remembered the look on Shawn's face and felt guilty. He hoped Lassiter and Henry were figuring something out to catch the bad guys. As he munched on his sandwich, he noticed an old man walking uncertainly towards him. What he didn't notice, though, was another man on the other side of the street that adjoined the station's main drive. This other man watched the old man intently for a few moments, then turned and walked off out of view. The only thing Buzz saw in that moment, though, was the approaching man who seemed somehow familiar. Then he remembered he'd seen him at the station just the other morning.

"Excuse me, officer," said the man when he was close.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I was wondering if a detective was here. Um, I think his name starts with an 'L.' He's kind of tall and skinny."

"That's Detective Lassiter," said Buzz, nodding. He waved vaguely at the blue Crown Vic parked on the other side of the street. "Yes, he is here. Do you need him?"

"Oh," said the old man as he turned to the car and then looked around, seeming confused. Then he patted at his pockets, his expression turning to embarrassment. "Actually, I don't right now. I was going to give him something, but here I've realized I left it at home. Damn senility." He gave Buzz a wry look and held out his hands in a helpless gesture. "Thank you for your help, though. I'll just have to come back again."

Buzz shrugged. "Okay, sir."

He watched as the old man crossed the street and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. He seemed to read it, and then he folded it as he reached the other sidewalk. The man walked next to Lassiter's car, pausing as he gazed into the windows. Buzz's brow furrowed. He knew that people liked to peep into police cars to look at the guns and other gear. The man dawdled for just a moment on the other side of the car and then turned to continue down the sidewalk away from the station. Buzz shrugged again and crumpled up the papers from his lunch. It was time to get back to work. He stood up and stretched, gazing once more at the old man who was disappearing around the corner at the bottom of the street. Once again, though, he didn't notice the intense man on the other side of the adjoining street who had reappeared and was walking quickly in the opposite direction from where he'd gone moments earlier. Buzz cleaned up his garbage and headed into the station. As he was tossing his trash, he saw something flash out of the corner of his eye. Then he heard, and felt, the boom.

**OoOoOoO**

Henry's nerves were beyond frayed now. He watched from the station steps as fire trucks and ambulances either arrived or departed, depending on what role they were playing in the latest explosion. The crowd of people on the other side of the adjoining street was building, now that the pyrotechnics seemed to be finished. He couldn't see the blackened hull of the car, but he'd walked down a few minutes earlier to catch a glimpse of it. No one seemed to know who it belonged to, so everyone was in a frenzy trying to figure out why another car had exploded. There was one fatality, this time, as well. The chief was busy counting heads to make sure the victim wasn't a member of the department. A forensics team had grabbed their gear and run over to document the scene, and Henry noticed one of the photographers returning already.

"Is the victim recognizable?" he asked.

The man looked uncertain about answering Henry, but he'd seen him around the station enough times that he apparently decided he could divulge a little information. He just nodded as he moved past and into the building. Henry turned and followed. Inside, Chief Vick was talking to Buzz in her office, getting his report as he was the only officer around to see anything outside before the blast. Henry hovered near Lassiter's desk as the photographer went into the office and showed the chief the images on his camera. Buzz's eyebrows raised and he started gesticulating, pointing towards the entrance.

Lassiter had been on the phone calling area retirement communities to ask about any residents named Morton Eisener. They didn't expect the man to be using his real name, but they were going to cover all the bases. Karen had told them when they'd arrived that the FBI identified the man in the picture. He'd been a mob lawyer for a powerful family in Chicago for many years before falling off of the map. The information they had was that family issues had caused Eisener to become untrustworthy to the mob, and he'd been in danger of getting killed off. The FBI's information about him had ended at that point. She'd told them that the agents were digging deeper and trying to find more connections to explain why he was apparently in Santa Barbara and hiring a hitman to go after Shawn and Henry. The other man in the picture had also been identified as Robert Gray, a longtime friend and associate of Eisener. Gray had disappeared at the same time.

Lassiter hung up the phone and sighed as Henry leaned back against his desk, watching the activity in the chief's office intently.

"What's' going on?" asked Lassiter.

"One of the photographers is showing them a picture of the victim."

Just then, the chief pulled out the old FBI photograph and held it up to the camera and to another picture that the station security cameras had managed to capture of the two old men on the bench. She looked up and met Henry's eyes, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Uh oh," he said.

The chief waved him and Lassiter into her office.

"Gentlemen, there's been a development," she said, as if they hadn't figured that out already. Henry knew that Karen used those kinds of introductions when the information was either very confusing or very disturbing, or both. "The man who was just killed outside appears to be Robert Gray."

She waited as Lassiter and Henry both moved forward to compare the pictures to the shot of the body in the car. The man's face was still surprisingly recognizable, and Henry realized that the device in his car had been much smaller. It had apparently been something under the man's seat, because his lower half was much more damaged than his upper body. He thought that perhaps it meant Sinclair had been forced to do a more hasty and less thorough job in this hit, maybe even something spur-of-the-moment.

"That's him," said Lassiter. "Did they retrieve any identification yet?"

"No," said the photographer. "Well, what they found is unreadable at the moment, but they're going to try and restore the items in his wallet enough to read a name. It will take a little while."

Lassiter grimaced. "It looks like a slap-dash effort, considering how careful and thorough Sinclair has been so far," he commented. 

"I agree," said Henry.

The chief nodded. "McNab here says this man approached him asking for you, Carlton, but when he was told you were here, he made an excuse and walked away."

"Maybe Sinclair saw him coming to the station and had to improvise," suggested Henry.

"So, he just has explosive devices that he carries around for emergencies?" asked Lassiter.

"I don't know," said Henry. "Why not?"

"I wonder why he came at all," said Lassiter. "And if he knew I was here, why did he leave?"

"Maybe he was going to turn himself in but he got cold feet," said Henry. "Why else would Sinclair be so quick to react?"

"Maybe he was going to turn in Sinclair," said the chief. They all raised their eyebrows and nodded. Then the chief dismissed the photographer and McNab. "I'm disturbed that this incident hit so close to home again, but at least we're getting closer to the who's of this case. We still need the why's."

"We'll figure them out, Chief," said Lassiter. "And now we know that Sinclair is still here. We've got the BOLOs out for his current description. If we can just track down Eisener's new alias and location, we can get him to give up Sinclair."

"If Sinclair doesn't get to him first," said Henry. He was starting to despair of finding Sinclair's location, and so the stash of antidotes he hoped was there. If Sinclair was still hanging around Santa Barbara and was caught, he was sure the hitman wouldn't give them any help. And the most likely scenario was that Sinclair would hit Eisener also and remove all possibility of being located. He decided he'd go back to the hospital as soon as he could to see how the search for other sources of the antivenom was going.

Lassiter grimaced and Chief Vick moved to sit down in her chair, rubbing at her forehead. "I'm not sure I have anything else for you to do, right now. I will call you if the agents get back to me with more information about Eisener's connections."

"Can I have a copy of those photos?" asked Lassiter. "I want to hit some of the higher-end retirement communities and see if anyone recognizes them."

She nodded and handed him copies of the older photo and the station security photo. "Good luck, detective."

"Can you drop me off at the hospital?" asked Henry.

He wanted to get back to make sure Shawn was behaving as well as to check on the antidotes. He'd called right after the explosion to update them and explain their delay. He was afraid Shawn would be getting antsy, but Gus told him he'd been sleeping most of the time which had made Henry even more anxious, if anything. It just wasn't like Shawn to be able to gear down like that when such craziness was going on around him. They walked out to Lassiter's car. The commotion down the street was still going on, but the column of smoke had finally disappeared. As Henry reached for the handle of the passenger door, something caught his eye. A piece of paper had been stuck down into the window so that only a small corner was visible.

"Lassiter," he said. "Don't get in the car."

"What?" said Lassiter as he released his own door handle as if it had stung him. "What's wrong?"

"Come here."

Lassiter walked around to join Henry and peered at the paper. "It looks like a note."

Henry nodded. "I guess we can just read it?"

Lassiter shrugged. He moved around the car again and knelt down to peer underneath. "I don't see anything blinking," he said wryly. "I doubt that a piece of paper like that would be a trigger."

Henry gingerly pulled the note out as Lassiter returned to his side. He unfolded the paper, which said, "SINCLAIR: Ten miles southwest of Stallion Springs, two miles east on old mining route 3568. Hurry. You're welcome."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Lassiter wasn't quite sure what he felt in that moment as he stared at the note in Henry's hand. They'd been given Sinclair. He couldn't tell if his triumph or his anxiety was winning the war that was currently raging in his chest.

"Robert Gray must've put that here," he said in a near-whisper, still feeling awed.

Henry's fingertips were growing white where he was gripping the corner of the note. "Do you have a map?"

Lassiter nodded and moved around to the driver's side of the car. He climbed in and dug out his map from between his seat and the center console. Henry got in the passenger seat as Lassiter opened the map. "That area is at least three hours away," he said.

Henry's lips were pressed in a hard, straight line as he studied the map intently. He looked at his watch and then looked at Lassiter. "Let's go," he said, his eyes glinting like metal.

"Go? Inside to show this..."

"No," said Henry as he held up the note and shook it. "Let's go."

Lassiter stared at him for a moment. "Are you suggesting we go off half-cocked to satisfy a revenge fantasy?"

Henry's glare darkened. "He's still in town. We can't give him time to go home and clean up," he said, putting air quotes around the last two words. "We need to do this. Now. We can beat him home and get back with Shawn's cure. Now, are you going to drive this goddam car there or not?"

Lassiter drew in a breath and looked out his window at the station for a moment. He knew they shouldn't do it, but if they took the time to organize a raid, Sinclair could get back to his place and destroy it all, including the antidotes that Henry was counting on being there. They shouldn't do it, but he wanted to go, to do something concrete, to maybe, finally get a step ahead of the guy and beat him at his own game. He also knew that if he didn't go with Henry now, he'd be left behind while Henry made the attempt on his own. He started the car.

"Buckle up," he said as he pulled away from the curb.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand as his headache started to spike again. He was feeling more queasy, too, and he hoped that it was due to the stress and anxiety rather than to the venom. He'd found himself feeling very floaty after his dad had left for the station and had dozed for a while, but it hadn't seemed to help him feel any better. Worse, if anything. And then his dad had called about the car bomb. He'd felt like jumping out of his skin at that point and had literally jumped out of the bed. Gus and the nurses had blocked him long enough for the doctor to come in and explain to him what a bad idea running around was, and they'd finally gotten him calmed down and back in bed. Gus had called the station and had gotten through to Buzz to get any details he could give, to help appease Shawn's anxiety.

Shawn was pretty sure the doctor had given the nurse some kind of prescription for a tranquilizer too, although he couldn't remember her giving him anything. He hadn't taken a pill or been given a shot, but he'd gotten dizzy and floaty and had fallen asleep again after a half hour or so of Gus fussing over him and looking for something to watch on the television. He'd slept almost two hours that time and had woken to a spread of food Gus had gathered from the cafeteria. The sight of it had almost made him hurl, but he'd managed to eat one cup of jello for Gus's sake.

"Aren't you going to eat that pudding?" asked Gus as he finished scooping out his own little cup.

"No, I'm stuffed," said Shawn.

"You only ate a cup of jello," said Gus with concern.

"It was very rich jello. It was the Marie Callender's of jello. I'm pretty sure it had at least 40 grams of fat."

"It was jello, Shawn. Jello doesn't have fat. Ever."

"Maybe not the kind you buy."

"What do you mean? I'm the one who buys the jello YOU eat at the office."

Shawn sniffed and cleared his throat, trying to think of how to continue the banter. It was something they did, something they'd always done, something he needed badly right now, but suddenly his brain felt shriveled and dry. He sniffed again, feeling congested. So on top of everything else he was going to catch a cold?

Gus's brow furrowed and he stood up, throwing away his pudding cup as he walked to the side of the bed. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy," said Shawn. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I'm going to get the doctor."

Shawn's eye flew open again. "What? No, don't do that. I'm fine, dude. I'm just, you know...not great."

Gus frowned and sat down again. "I know, but...you know."

Shawn nodded. "Don't I ever. Let's change the subject. So, how about them evil old geezers trying to kill us?"

"Creepy much?" said Gus with a shiver. "But, that one old dude did have some nice taste. I'd love a pair of those shoes he was wearing at the station."

"I guess being on the mob payroll has its perks, even when you have to skip town to avoid being killed by your employers."

"Rolex, tailored shirts," said Gus.

"Oxygen tank," said Shawn.

"You know what's funny about that is, the guy smelled like cigars. Reeked. He probably sits there alternating puffs of cigar and oxygen," said Gus with a shake of his head.

"Oxygen tank," said Shawn again.

He was staring blankly at the ceiling as images flooded through his brain. He saw the old man watching as he talked to his dad. The guy was glaring at them through his thick glasses. He was gasping for air despite the tube in his nose, his mouth open in a disturbing rictus of a snarl. His teeth were yellow and gross. The tube ran from his nose, hooked over his ears and ran down to the small tank suspended from a strap that was hanging from his shoulder. The strap was black nylon. The tank was rectangular, cream colored. It had a logo. Shawn squinted, as if it would help his brain recall the image. It had points. It was like a 'W,' but that didn't seem quite right. He blinked as he heard Gus saying something to him. The man turned towards the bathroom and the tank was easier to see. It had a logo with two 'V's on it.

"V, V," said Shawn.

"Dude, you're starting to freak me out," hissed Gus who was standing at his elbow. "What are you saying?"

"I saw a logo on the guy's oxygen tank," said Shawn as he sat up. He realized how sick he was of lying down in the bed, but then sitting up wasn't so great either. His head spun for a few nauseating moments and he grimaced.

"V, V?" said Gus. "Hang on..."

"Hanging," hissed Shawn as the room finally slowed its wobbly spin.

"There's a retirement village one of my doctors subs at. High-end place. Valle Vista!"

Shawn's heart sped up, and he felt suddenly disoriented, as if his brain was trying to make connections that weren't connecting. They had the guy. They had to go get him. "Where's my dad?"

"What?"

"Where's dad?"

"Uh, I don't know. I assume he's still at the station. I haven't heard from him since he called about the car bomb."

Shawn wasn't sure why, but he felt suddenly afraid, although that didn't quite seem to be the right word to describe the emotion. He was agitated, too. Everything seemed so out of balance, and everyone was scattered. Juliet injured, Lassie not working, his dad getting attacked too. He felt like things were falling apart, like cracks were forming around their feet. His heart was racing now. This retirement place might hold the key, if this guy was the mastermind. He felt like they should go there, immediately, but he also felt strangely frozen, like he was tied to the bed. Was he afraid? Was he just uncertain? Maybe his memory was wrong, maybe this wasn't the place, maybe this wasn't even the right guy...maybe he didn't want to find the key. He was angry with himself for that, but he wasn't sure why else he felt so hesitant. The headache wasn't helping. It was starting to get unbearable. He squeezed his eyes shut and put his left hand over his face.

Gus had been watching him, his expression growing more and more alarmed, then he just turned and walked out of the room, not even mentioning his intent. He returned a few seconds later and said, "The doctor's on the way. You don't look good."

"Okay," said Shawn as he sat back again. Gus's eyes widened at the lack of protest. Shawn drew in a deep breath and tried to focus his thoughts. "Can you find out where my dad is?"

"Sure, just try to relax," said Gus. He stepped out into the hallway to make the call.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter squinted into the rear view mirror again and noticed the gray car that had been staying back just far enough to not be suspicious. All of his alarm bells were going off. He'd become aware of the car about 45 minutes into the drive. It had approached and receded enough times that he hadn't become concerned until another hour and a half had passed. He still wasn't sure it was anything, but the road they were on now was mostly deserted.

"Is the car still there?" asked Henry.

"Yeah," said Lassiter. But just then he saw the car turn off onto a small side road they'd passed a minute earlier. It hadn't looked like a road that led anywhere, but perhaps it was just a long driveway. "Hang on. It just pulled off." He felt a loosening in his shoulders and realized he'd been tensing up for the whole drive due to his suspicions of being followed. He sighed and tried to stretch out the kinks as he drove.

Henry peered into his side mirror and then shrugged. "So you think we should gear up before going in? We've surely beaten him home."

"It can't hurt. And we can't be sure we've beaten him by long enough to avoid a confrontation."

Henry nodded. "Fine. I'm hoping we can get there and back in seven hours," said Henry as he glanced at his watch and then started tapping his fingers on his knee. "It's been almost two and a half hours now. We should be there in another half hour or so." He was talking in a monotone, as if he was vocalizing his thoughts without realizing it. "Maybe Shawn won't show symptoms before then."

"Do you have a signal yet?" asked Lassiter as he checked his phone again. They were out into some barren areas now, and the cell signals were sporadic at best.

"Not right now. You want to call in?"

"We have to tell them what we're doing. It's bad enough we've gone off alone. We'll still go and get the stuff, but they can be sending backup now just in case something does happen."

"Yeah, okay," said Henry with a grimace. "I, uh, appreciate your coming along, Lassiter. I know this goes against your training."

"And yours," said Lassiter. "I figured if I didn't come, you would've done this alone."

Henry tilted his head in assent. "Still, I appreciate you going outside of your comfort zone like this."

"My comfort zone? What does that mean?" asked Lassiter, feeling a surge of irritation.

"I just," started Henry, but then he looked at Lassiter and shook his head. "Nevermind."

"No, I'd like to hear this."

"Lassiter, please," said Henry. "Forget it. I'm..." He paused and huffed out a frustrated sigh. "I'm not in a good place right now, mentally, you know?"

Lassiter frowned. He knew Henry was worried about Shawn, probably more worried than he'd ever seen him. He'd been anxious and determined to find his son when he'd been shot and kidnapped, but this almost seemed worse. That time, at least, they'd been able to do something to help Shawn. They'd saved him, and then he was okay. This time, Shawn was "safe" and in the hospital, but they still weren't sure they'd be able to save him. There was still a chance there was nothing they could do. He felt the sick frustration of that fact himself, and he knew he was probably only feeling a fraction of what Henry was suffering. Fathers and sons. There were so many deep feelings and so many different directions those feelings could go. Unfortunately, his own experience with that dynamic was disappointment on the one side and frustrated desire on the other. He'd wanted his father's approval, he'd always tried to achieve it, and he'd never been able to. And then his chances had been gone. He'd never figured out why his father hadn't cared about him. His frown deepened and he almost wished for the distraction of the suspicious car again.

"I'm sorry, Henry. I know how difficult this is for you. Or, I can't really know, I guess..." He sighed and grimaced.

"You know," said Henry. "It's like what you're feeling about your partner, a little bit, at least."

Lassiter nodded. He looked at his phone and found that it was holding a weak signal. He punched in the number for the station and glanced at Henry as he held the phone up to his ear. When the dispatcher answered, he gave him all of the information he could as quickly as he could in case the signal dropped again. When he was done, he was patched through to the chief.

"LASSITER!" she yelled. "What the HELL kind of a stunt is this?"

"Chief. We felt that we had to act on the information Gray gave us immediately," said Lassiter, cringing slightly as he held the phone away from his ear. He'd been holding it up to his right ear, even.

"Well you were WRONG about that, mister. And your ASS..." The connection cut off there.

Lassiter held the phone out and looked at it like it was possessed, then he met Henry's wry look. "She's...not happy," he said.

Henry snorted. "I could hear. I wonder what the future holds for your ass," he said as his smirk widened into a grin.

Lassiter felt an unexpected amusement bubble up as a smile spread across his face. "I really don't want to find out," he said with a small laugh. "And I don't think that's any of your business, either."

Henry chuckled. "That's true," he said, then he sighed. "Ah, I guess, we've screwed ourselves pretty good here." He was silent for a moment as the humor faded from his expression. "As long as we get the antidote."

"We'll be there soon," said Lassiter. He was starting to feel the familiar butterflies in his stomach. He hoped their mission was simple and uneventful, a quick in and out to retrieve the medicine. As much as he wanted to apprehend Sinclair, he really didn't want to attempt it in such a reckless manner. They could gather their forces and trap the killer later, but right now the priority was to save a life.

**OoOoOoO**

Gus paced the hallway outside of Shawn's room as he grew more and more frightened. He was sure Shawn was getting worse. And now, he couldn't find Henry. No one seemed to know where he was. He'd called the station, expecting him to still be there, but they said he and Lassiter had left hours earlier. Buzz said they thought Henry was at the hospital, and Lassiter had said something about checking retirement homes. So, they were on the same track as Shawn, it seemed, but where were they now? He'd tried calling Lassiter's phone, but it had gone straight to voice mail. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

The doctor came out of the room and saw Gus. "I've given him something for his headache," he said as Gus ran up to him. "He seems more disoriented. Have you noticed that too?"

"Yes, I guess so. Does that mean he really does have the venom?"

"It may. I'm going to have the nurse check his clotting again in a few minutes. Just keep him distracted," said the doctor. "I'm afraid at this point there's not much to do other than keeping him calm and comfortable."

"What about the antivenom?"

"We have some leads on sources. We're working on expediting that right now. As soon as we have some on the way, we'll let you and Mr. Spencer know. Is Mr. Spencer still here at the hospital?"

Gus shrugged. "No. I don't really know where he is right now, but I'm sure he'll be back soon."

The doctor nodded and put a hand on Gus's shoulder before walking away. Gus grimaced and went back into the room. Shawn seemed to be dozing again. Gus was starting to feel exhausted himself, although more from the constant state of worry than anything else. He sat down in the big chair and tried to relax. After a few minutes, the nurse came in and took some of Shawn's blood to test the clotting. When she left, Shawn gazed at him for a few moments, as if he was trying to remember something.

"Where's dad?" he asked, looking around as if he expected Henry to be sitting in one of the corners.

"I'm not sure," said Gus, cringing at having to deliver that news. "He's probably just on his way here, or something."

"He's not at the station?"

"No, uh, they said he left a while ago."

Shawn's expression grew alarmed. "What? Is anyone out looking for him? Where's Lassie?"

Gus stood up and walked to the bed as Shawn sat up. "Buzz said he thought Lassie was going around to some of the retirement homes."

"Thought? He doesn't know for sure? Have you tried calling?"

"Yes. It goes to voice mail," said Gus with a grimace. Shawn's increasing agitation was making Gus's own fear escalate as well. What the hell was going on?

"What the hell's going on?" hissed Shawn. He started to swing his legs over the bed. "Gus, I gotta get out of here. We need to find that guy, right now."

"Shawn, please," said Gus as he put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're getting worse. You need to stay here."

"What does it matter, Gus? If I get worse here or somewhere else, does it really matter? We know where to look, now. Let's just go. And now we have to find out what happened to dad and Lassie."

"We don't know that anything has happened to them," argued Gus, feeling more and more convinced that something really was wrong. "And what good are we going to do? Just have the police pick up this crazy old man."

"Call them if you want," said Shawn as he slid off the bed and wobbled for a moment, holding his still-wrapped right arm with his left for a moment as if it was painful. "I'm leaving."

"They won't let you just go," said Gus.

"Oh ye of little faith," said Shawn with a hint of the old twinkle in his eye. "I'm flipping the jackal switch. Meet me at the car."

Gus opened his mouth to argue, but Shawn held up a finger for quiet and then waved at him to get away from the door. He sighed. If Shawn was determined to run away, he was going to do it. So, Gus decided he should just stay with his friend and help him rather than get left behind to worry about what he was doing. Just as it had always been. Shawn walked out of the room, and Gus moved up to peer through a crack in the door. Shawn strolled down the hallway nonchalantly.

"Mr. Spencer, do you need something?" asked a nurse at the nearby desk as Shawn passed by.

"Hmm? Oh I was just going to find a bathroom," he said.

"Is there a problem with the one in your room?"

"No, well, kind of," said Shawn as he grimaced. "My friend's using it right now. He had bean and onion burritos for dinner." He waved his hand in front of his face dramatically.

Gus groaned. "Gee, thanks, Shawn," he whispered vehemently to himself.

"Oh, well, there's one down the hallway there," said the nurse with a sympathetic look.

"Thanks!" said Shawn as he waved and continued down the hallway, glancing back once at the room as if he knew Gus was watching. When he got near the bathroom, he looked around and then jumped across the hall to the stairwell access.

Gus sighed. Of course he'd done it. So, now he had to get out too. He looked around and saw another stairwell access down the adjoining hallway, so he wouldn't have to pass the same nurse. He took a breath and then strolled out of the room and turned into the other passage. Shawn's doctor saw him go by and gave a little wave as he continued his discussion with another doctor. Gus nodded and tried not to look like he was executing a jail break with his gravely ill friend.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Lassiter squinted at the faded wooden sign at the intersection of a dirt side-road, or, more accurately, a dirt path that branched off of the road they were currently traveling. The sun was starting to sink in the sky, throwing long shadows off of the scrub brush and scraggly trees that constituted the vegetation for the area.

"That's it," said Henry, leaning forward in his seat and squinting at the sign as well.

Lassiter pulled the Crown Vic to the side of the road and parked. "Let's gear up."

They got out and went to the trunk to retrieve vests and weapons. Lassiter threw his suit coat into the trunk, rolled up his shirt sleeves and donned his vest. He put on his thigh-rig to hold his main service weapon and also kept the back-up gun in his ankle holster. It had proven lucky for him so far. Henry shrugged himself into a vest, looking uncomfortable and a little out of practice, but his face was set with a stony determination. He clipped a handgun to his belt and grabbed a big, heavy-duty flashlight. They both checked their weapons and clips, and then they each loaded some extra clips.

As they were finishing, they heard the sound of tires on the road. They hadn't seen any cars at all in the past twenty minutes or so. At the sound, they exchanged a look and then stepped to the road, side by side, to see what was coming. A police car was approaching from the south, the direction they'd been heading before they'd found the mining route. The car slowed when it got closer, and the flashing lights turned on as it pulled over to the side of the road and parked nose to nose with their car. An officer climbed slowly from the car. He regarded them with a tilted head and a faint, crooked smile.

"Are you the detectives from Santa Barbara?" he asked as he walked over. He was Lassiter's height, and appeared to be at least Henry's age, although he had a spring to his step that belied his years. He was fit and had a wry twinkle in his eye that made him look like he was amused about something. He was wearing a wide-brimmed trooper's hat and yellow shooting-style glasses that had thick, black rims.

Lassiter sighed, realizing how tense he'd become at the sight of the strange car. He gave the officer a nod and held out a hand. "I'm Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD," he said.

"Deputy Moore," said the officer as he shook Lassiter's hand. He glanced at Henry who just nodded but didn't offer his name. "The sheriff said to keep an eye out for you. We received an alert from your department. So, who you after, exactly?" 

Henry stayed silent, which Lassiter thought was a small miracle considering how he'd behaved the last time they'd been working together to save Shawn. He noticed that his lips were set in a tight line and figured he was becoming impatient with the meet and greet. Lassiter wasn't particularly happy to have to bring an unknown officer from an unknown department into the mix either, although it couldn't hurt to have support if something went wrong. "Well, we're mostly hoping to search the location two miles up this road for an antidote to a poison. Our associate back in Santa Barbara needs it badly."

"Poison? Why do you think the antidote is out here?" asked Moore with an incredulous expression.

"We, uh, have it on good authority," said Lassiter, fudging the truth a bit. He didn't want to tell this stranger that they were flying by the seat of their pants in the desperate hope that Sinclair's place even existed, let alone that it held the stash of antivenom they were only hoping it had.

Henry cleared his throat. "We should get moving," he said as he gazed up and down the road and finished stashing the extra clips.

Moore eyed them both and flashed the crooked grin. "Aren't you two kinda over-equipped for just wanting to grab some meds?"

Lassiter narrowed his eyes at the deputy, wondering why the man seemed so flippant. He'd known officers like this one, and they'd always bugged him. He realized that it was probably why Spencer irritated him so much, as well. "Can't be too careful," he said flatly.

Moore smirked and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we have had some complaints around this area before. People talking about hearing explosions in the middle of the night and such. Chalked it up to kids playing with fireworks or guns. Never found anything to suggest there was harm being done, but I suppose you're right about the being careful thing," he said. He started to turn towards his car. "How about I lead the way to make sure everything's square, since this is my jurisdiction, and all."

Henry muttered something unintelligible and walked to the passenger door. Lassiter scowled but didn't argue. The deputy was definitely getting on his nerves, but hopefully they'd get their mission finished and would be back on the road to Santa Barbara shortly. Lassiter decided he'd call Moore's superior after they were on their way and make sure he was ordered to keep watch at Sinclair's place in case the hitman returned. A long stakeout in the desert night might do the guy some good.

After they were back in the car, Henry said, "I don't like that guy."

"Me either," said Lassiter as he buckled in and started the car. Moore's cruiser pulled down the mining road and sped off, not waiting for them at all. Lassiter felt a flash of irritation and threw his car into gear, accelerating to catch up. "What's he think he's doing?"

"Showing off," grumbled Henry.

They couldn't drive too fast on the dirt road due to the erosion and uneven tracks. They bounced and jostled along and were surprised by some tight turns that slowed them even more. After a few minutes, Moore's car was out of sight, and all they could see was the haze of dust it had left hanging in the air ahead of them. "Dammit," hissed Lassiter as he tried to speed up through a straighter area. He was starting to feel a rush of anxiety as they got closer to their destination.

"Where the hell is it?" growled Henry after another minute. "We have to be close."

Lassiter could see that the road took another sharp turn to the right about fifty yards further on, and he hoped that Sinclair's place was going to appear after that bend. As he slowed down to take the curve, he saw a flash and felt as much as heard the explosion. Up ahead, just beyond a small hill that the road was curving around, a fireball rose into the air.

"Oh hell," breathed Henry.

"No!" said Lassiter as his eyes widened at the sight. Not again. This wasn't happening again. He slammed on the brakes and stared at the dispersing fireball and the billowing black smoke, then he looked at Henry. "He's here."

"Maybe," said Henry with a look of stricken horror. "Maybe not, though." He opened his door and got out. Lassiter did the same. "Could've just been a booby trap."

Lassiter pulled his gun and walked forward, swallowing what felt like a lungful of the billowing dust from the road. After about twenty yards, they'd moved far enough around the bend to see the deputy's car. It was on fire about fifty yards ahead. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," he chanted as he moved towards the car.

He scanned the area, turning now and then to check all around. Henry was following with his own weapon at the ready. As they got closer, Lassiter paused for a moment to retrieve his phone, checking for a signal, but there wasn't any. They'd have to call in the incident from the road. As they got closer, they noticed a crater in the middle of the path. Henry walked around towards the driver's side of the cruiser which had rolled off the side of the dirt path and had come to rest against a small hillock. Lassiter moved along the passenger side. They couldn't get too close, though, due to the flames.

"So it was a trap," said Henry with a heaviness to his voice as he gazed back at the crater for a moment. Then he leaned down and squinted into the burning car. "I don't see his body."

Lassiter peered into the car, but there was too much smoke and fire damage darkening everything. It had been a large and destructive bomb, unlike the one that had killed Robert Gray. "I can't see anything. You don't think he got out, do you?"

They both looked around for a few moments. "If he did, where did he go?" asked Henry. "I'm pretty sure the poor guy's in there somewhere."

"Dammit," said Lassiter again, heaving a sigh. "This is crazy."

Henry just nodded and looked away beyond the burning car. There was a building another hundred yards from them. It was one-story with a mostly flat tin roof, but it was long. It looked like it could be an old military barracks or some kind of training structure. It was dirt colored and blended into its surroundings. The windows were either blacked out or were so dirty it amounted to the same thing. There were no other vehicles visible, which eased Lassiter's mind slightly. Maybe they could still get in and out without further incident, although the pall of Moore's death was dragging him down. If the deputy hadn't driven ahead and sprung the trap, though, he and Henry would be dead. He took a last look at the burning shell and said a quick thank you, then he started towards the building.

"Let's just walk it," he said as he moved forward. "I don't want to risk the car with any more traps."

Henry nodded. "Fine, but watch your step."

He moved so that there was some distance between them, and Lassiter realized he was doing that in case one of them did step on another explosive. He grimaced and gritted his teeth, scanning the ground ahead and stepping more gingerly than normal. The closer they got, the bigger the building looked, and Lassiter wondered who had built it and why it was here. It was about 40 yards long and had two doors, one at each end. Lassiter started to angle towards the door to the right before noticing that Henry was heading towards the one on the left.

"Spencer," called Lassiter. "We should go in together."

"It'll be quicker if we start at opposite ends and meet in the middle," said Henry. "I know it's not procedure, though."

Lassiter scowled. "Procedure's there for a reason, dammit. What if Sinclair's inside?"

"We need to take that chance," said Henry.

"No, we don't," argued Lassiter. "It won't take that much longer."

Henry stopped walking and turned towards Lassiter with a frown. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Henry sighed. "Alright, compromise. Let's just each look in our door but not go in. Maybe we can see which place seems more likely to have antidotes. I'm assuming they'll be refrigerated. Whoever thinks they're in the right place can wave the other over."

Lassiter's eyes narrowed, but he finally just nodded and kept walking towards the right-side door that he'd been approaching. He just wanted to get out of this hellhole as soon as they could. He glanced up and saw that the eastern sky was already dark with twilight. The sun had gone down. He finally reached the door. It was set into the building ten feet or so from the edge. He felt like walking over to check the side of the building, but he could see that Henry was already opening his door, so he just moved to the door and held his gun up as he opened it. The door swung outwards, so he pulled it wide and then stepped into the opening, hunkered down and gun at the ready. He moved his gun with his gaze around the dark room. Inside, there were tables and tables lined up in rows and covered with clear boxes, some of which were illuminated with pale glows. After a brief moment, he realized that they were all glass aquariums of various sizes. His heart thumped against his sternum at the realization of how many bugs and snakes there had to be in just this end of the building. He straightened up and stepped back out of the room, swallowing hard, then he looked towards the other end to see what Henry was doing. But he was nowhere in sight, his door still standing open.

"Damn you Spencer," growled Lassiter as he started to turn towards Henry's end to follow the pigheaded malcontent into the building.

Something hard came to rest against his skull, just behind his right ear.

"Carlton," said a familiar voice. "Henry's gone on inside. You were right to warn him, but unfortunately you'll be the one to suffer for it. Frustrating, isn't it?"

Lassiter fought the urge to spin towards the voice, recognizing the feel of a gun's muzzle against the back of his head. He'd gone through this once before, and his stomach was twisting with the same fear and sense of utter hopelessness he'd felt that day in the cemetery.

"Toss your gun," said the voice. The muzzle moved away from his head and he could sense the man taking a few steps back.

He was smart. If he stayed in too close, Lassiter might get an opportunity to attack. But, of course he was smart. "Sinclair," said Lassiter as he threw the gun to the ground several feet in front, towards Henry's end. He kept his gaze fixed on the door for a moment, willing Spencer to come out and see what was happening. "So that was you following us?"

"Very good, Carlton," said the hitman. He moved around to stand in front of Lassiter but with his back to the building so he could see Henry's door in his periphery. Lassiter's eyes widened. Sinclair was Deputy Moore. He'd taken the glasses off, and the scar was visible along with the black eyes that had haunted his nightmares. "I took a shortcut, though. I had to prepare for uninvited guests. Get all gussied up, you see."

Lassiter felt his chest tighten and tried to think of some way to stall or distract the killer until Henry came back. He briefly considered lunging at him so he could rip his head off, but instead of suicide he decided to delay with talk. "So you blew up your own car?" he asked with as much disdain as he could bring to his tone.

Sinclair shrugged. "Well, it wasn't really mine," he said with the crooked grin. "And I didn't want you two blowing up. Yet. I want this game to last a little bit longer than that."

"Game," said Lassiter, feeling his blood starting to boil again as he glared at the killer. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, this is all a game to me, Carlton. I've done some research on you and your friends since this started, and I've found very interesting things. Such as, you and the Spencers aren't really very good friends at all, are you? And I discovered Henry was on my trail once, long ago. Did he tell you?"

Lassiter set his jaw and tried to glare a hole through Sinclair, wondering where the hell Henry could be. "He told me you were a slimy, low-life, psychopathic bastard who's going to get the death sentence or die in jail," growled Lassiter.

Sinclair's grin widened and he laughed. "You really are entertaining," said Sinclair as he glanced towards Henry's door. He stepped over to retrieve Lassiter's gun, then tucked it into his waistband and smiled brightly. "But I should get on with this. Our game has started, and I need to begin Henry's as well. So I'm going to have to say...tag, you're it."

Sinclair raised his weapon and took aim. It was the move Lassiter had seen him perform at the empty lot that day, only this time he had a real gun instead of just his hand. Lassiter saw the muzzle flash and felt an explosion go off in his chest. The world became a white, airless blankness that crushed him into the ground.

**OoOoOoO**

Gus cast a worried glance at Shawn in the passenger seat for the millionth time. Shawn sighed and stifled a cough. He was feeling worse, and it frightened him, but the thought of his dad being in danger again was worse yet. He was going to find this evil old creep and shake him until he told them what he'd done with his father. For a moment he squeezed his eyes shut as images flashed through his mind, confusing and disturbing him. Along with the physical problems, he was having more difficulty focusing and making sense of things. He sniffed and swiped at his nose with the back of his left hand. When he looked down, he saw red smears. He put his hand to his nostril and found more blood. He dug out a napkin from between the seat and the center console and wiped his nose, hoping Gus didn't notice. His friend was freaking out enough as it was.

"What's wrong?" asked Gus with yet another glance at Shawn.

"Nothing, man," said Shawn. "Are we almost there?"

"Yeah, but I want you to promise me that you're going to wait for the police to come before going inside," said Gus. "We're calling them as soon as we get there."

"Right," said Shawn distractedly. He put his head back on the seat hoping to stave off the new trickle he felt inside his nose.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Gus."

"Sorry."

"Me too."

They rode in silence for a few more minutes until Gus turned the car into a long, manicured drive that led up to a housing complex. There was one main building and then smaller houses all around it. It was a neat little subdivision removed from the noise of the surrounding roads by green lawns. Gus pulled into a space at the main building, then he pulled out his phone. He was patched through to the chief.

"Yes, Chief. It's the Valle Vista retirement community. Shawn saw it in a vision. Well, yes, we left the hospital because he said he had to come here, too. Oh, okay. Yeah, I got it. Yeah, we'll wait. Thanks, Chief." Gus ended the call and looked at Shawn. "They figured out who this guy is," he said.

Shawn looked at him. "Yeah?"

"He used to be a mob lawyer. A fixer, really. But he had a kid who started causing trouble, and he started trying to fix things for his kid too, which made the family he worked for lose trust in him."

"Ah, sounds like a warm, loving relationship," quipped Shawn, flashing on the idea of his own rocky relationship with his dad.

"The FBI finally tracked it down...this old guy is Maxwell Francis' father," said Gus.

"So he tried to save his son from our case, bringing in a crazy psychopath of a hitman to do it. Remind me to send him a Christmas card this year."

Gus grimaced and nodded.

"So what's his name?"

"Morton Eisener is his real name. They're not sure what alias he's using."

Shawn opened his door. It was awkward having to reach across his body to use his left hand, but his right arm was still wrapped and throbbing with pain. "Stay here," he said to Gus as he climbed out.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm just going to find out which little house he's in," said Shawn as he leaned down to look into the car. He regretted the move almost immediately when he felt his nose begin to drip. He straightened up again and headed toward the building before Gus could see the blood. "I'll be right back"

When he entered, he noticed a reception desk off to the side. The girl working at the desk was dark-haired and pretty. He tried to smile charmingly, but his game was way off, he knew, damned game-killing venom.

"Can I help you?" she asked as he got to the desk. Then her eyes widened as she took in his appearance. "Is your nose bleeding?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Do you have any tissues?" asked Shawn as blood started to drip.

"Are you okay?" she asked as she pushed a box of tissues towards him. He could see her gaze rest on his wrapped up arm too.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just this dry air, allergies, you know," he said as he held a wad of the kleenexes to his nose. "Can you tell me if you have anyone living here named Morton?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Police business," said Shawn. The girl looked at him skeptically and he felt a surge of frustration. He wasn't in the mood to put on his standard show just to get her to help, so he decided to be straightforward. "I'm a consultant with the SBPD. They're actually on the way right now, but I wanted to find the right unit so we don't have to knock on every door here."

Her eyes widened, and she started to type on her computer. "Last name Morton?"

"No, no. First name."

"Oh, uh, let me see. I'm not sure we can search for first names," she said with an apologetic look. She typed at the keyboard for a minute while Shawn squeezed his nose, trying to get it to stop running. "Let me just do a find...oh! Here's a Mr. Morton Costa. He's in unit 26."

"Awesome. Thank you so much," said Shawn through the wad of tissues.

He gave the girl a small wave with the wad of bloody tissues in his hand and walked towards the exit. Along the way, he noticed a frame on the wall that held a map of the units and grounds and paused to gaze at it momentarily. Then he went outside and turned towards Unit 26. He couldn't go back to the car with the sudden fountain his nose had become or Gus would insist on driving him straight back to the hospital. Plus, he was feeling a strange, insistent need to run to the old man's house and bust in the door. His dad might be inside there, being held hostage or something. The more he thought about that, the more likely it seemed. His mind was beginning to race with thoughts and images flowing through it, making him feel dizzy and disoriented. He tried to anchor himself on something, but the image of his father duct-taped to a chair kept flashing through his brain. Part of him knew that he was replacing his father with himself in that terrifying garage after he'd been shot, but that part was being drowned out by the sense of panic and confusion embroiling the rest of his mind.

"Shawn!" yelled Gus. "Where are you going?"

"Be right back!" he yelled over his shoulder as he tried to walk quickly. His legs felt odd and wobbly, though, so he had to concentrate on not tripping. He heard the engine of Gus's car start up. He turned onto the sidewalk that led to Unit 26. After a moment, Gus rolled up next to him.

"Get in the car, Shawn!"

"Dad's in there, Gus. Don't ask me how. I just know it," said Shawn.

"Are you bleeding? You have to stop, Shawn. The police will be here in just a minute."

"I can't. He's in there. I can see him," said Shawn, wondering for a moment why he felt so dizzy.

"What are you talking about?" asked Gus with a distinct note of desperate concern.

"I can see him, Gus," said Shawn as the image seemed to grow clearer and clearer in his mind. He hardly saw anything else anymore, following the map's image of the path to the house in his memory as his father's agonized face filled the rest of his mind. "He's tied up. He's hurt. He needs me."

"Shawn, I think you're wrong," said Gus who was suddenly walking next to him and trying to pull at his arm. Shawn didn't remember him stopping and getting out of the car. "You're sick. You need to stop."

They were on the sidewalk that led to the house's front door. Gus pulled harder on his arm as Shawn struggled to free it. "Let go! He's in there!" hissed Shawn as he saw a shadowy man holding his dad's throat so he couldn't yell out for help. "DAD!"

Gus grabbed Shawn around his torso and tried to drag him away, but then the door of the house opened. A tall man was holding a gun on them.

"Oh crap," breathed Gus. His grip loosened and Shawn pulled away.

"Where's my father?" he growled at the man as he stalked towards him.

"Shawn, he's got a gun," said Gus warningly.

Shawn blinked and focused on the man, feeling a shock at the sight of the weapon. He hadn't noticed it, seeing only the images in his mind. But clarity returned like a splash of cold water, and he finally realized how much danger he and Gus were in. "Oh," he said as he started to back up again.

The man walked towards them and then moved around to block their path. He waved the gun towards the open door. Sirens began to wail in the distance. The man's eyes widened and he seemed to consider just shooting them right there instead of waiting, but then a voice called out, "Ferdinand, get them in here."

The man herded them into the house. Gus bumped into Shawn as they stumbled up the step and into the front door. "I'm sorry, man," whispered Shawn, but Gus was just staring at him with more concern than fear.

"You're bleeding," he said. "Why didn't you stop?"

"I think my brain's a little scrambled," said Shawn.

They were ushered into a small living room where the old man was standing, leaning heavily on his walker and wheezing. "You ASSHOLES!" he hissed at them, then he fell into a coughing fit.

Ferdinand closed and locked the front door and stood behind them, still covering them with the gun.

Shawn felt a rush of anger. "Are you kidding me?" he yelled. "You're the one trying to kill us! Who's the bigger asshole here? And where's my father?" 

The old man's eyes bugged out even more than usual and two spots of red bloomed on his pale cheeks. "He killed Bob instead of you! Why aren't you dead? Bob was right, I should've taken care of this myself from the beginning," he said. "Give me that gun. I want to do this myself." He started to shuffle towards them, holding out a hand for the weapon.

Shawn put his left hand on the old man's shoulder, feeling like he wanted to ring his neck and wondering if he could do it one-handed. Suddenly all hell broke loose as the sirens in the distance got louder. First, the tall man, Ferdinand, took a step towards them at the sight of Shawn handling his boss. Gus grabbed at Ferdinand's gun arm when he got close and they began to struggle, the gun waving wildly around the room. Shawn watched for a second before feeling the old man shifting under his grip. Then he saw the man's hand swinging towards him in the instant before he landed a punch on his wrapped up arm. Pain spiked up his arm and into his head. He stumbled back a step, blinking at spots, and then doubled over. Gasping for air, he raised his head and saw Gus push Ferdinand's arm down as he tried to lean into him. Then the gun went off. Gus screamed and fell to the floor.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Henry heard the shot and felt a spike of pain pierce his belly. The sound had come from outside, where he'd left Lassiter. He had agreed to wait, feeling that it was an utter waste of time, that the man was too tied to procedure and was simply being a control-freak. He had agreed to wait knowing that he wouldn't. You could always promise one thing and apologize later, right? There was always time to apologize later. He turned towards the open door across the room, feeling a coldness seep from his chest into his twisting guts.

"Shit," he whispered. He was so close. Why couldn't they have gotten in and out without any more incidents? He turned back to the refrigerator he'd spotted as soon as he'd opened the door and the metal case he'd just pulled out of it. The padded case held vials and vials of variously labeled antivenoms, each nestled into the protective lining. He saw several vials with the word "Boomslang." The sight of them had brought him such a sweet sense of relief just moments earlier. He closed the case and looked at the door again, wondering if Lassiter might've just shot at a coyote or at a shadow or something bland and harmless like that. He knew better though, and his instincts were already kicking into gear, yelling at him to find cover. He wondered if the detective was still alive. "Shit."

"Olly olly oxen free," called a voice from just outside the door.

Henry's brow furrowed. What the hell was this? It had to be Sinclair. It certainly wasn't Lassiter, and now his guts did another flip at the confirmation of their predicament and the possible fate of the detective. He grasped the handle and hefted the metal case in his left hand while he pulled his weapon out of its holster.

"I know you've found the meds by now, Henry," said Sinclair, sounding closer. "So now you've got to get them and yourself to home base before I find you. Can you do that?"

Home base? Olly olly oxen free? Was this guy playing hide and seek with him? Henry tried to swallow through the sudden dryness in his throat and looked around the room for a place to hide. It was dark, but he thought he could make out work tables spread around the room, and the place smelled sulfurous. Maybe this was where Sinclair worked on his explosives. He started to move diagonally across the room so he could get against the front wall in case Sinclair came in, and he hoped he'd find a passage into the next room. He'd expected the inside of the building to be open, but there was at least one wall dividing the room he was in from the rest of the building. Hopefully there was an opening or doorway that could get him into the next area and give him access to the other exit.

"You're probably wondering about Carlton," said the voice which sounded like it was just at the edge of the doorway now. "He's going to be sore, but he should be okay. For now. He's 'it' by the way. Don't let him tag you." He chuckled.

Henry stifled a groan. He was relieved at the information, if the crackpot could be believed, but the talk of childrens games was beyond disturbing. It wasn't bad enough that they had to deal with a professional hitman, but the guy had to be a lunatic as well? Great. He moved into the dark corner of the room and tucked the metal case under his arm, feeling the wall until he finally located a door handle. He pulled the door open and found another room beyond just as dark. Hopefully his eyes would adjust soon. He slipped through the opening just as there was movement at the door where he'd entered. He paused long enough to recognize the man coming through as Deputy Moore which made him almost give himself away with a gasp. The sonofabitch had been standing there, chatting with them, shaking Lassiter's hand, smiling that stupid, irritating smile...no wonder he hadn't liked the guy. He'd always had good instincts about people. Too bad he hadn't listened to them.

Sinclair stalked into the room, gun raised and scanning. Henry ducked into the darkness, not bothering to shut the door. This was the killer's territory. He was going to know where Henry was headed, after he'd confirmed he wasn't hiding under the tables in the previous room. His only hope was to stay far enough ahead of the man until he could get back to the car or get the drop on the guy. As he started to pick his way through the darkness, a glow blossomed behind him and his heart thumped painfully in his chest. Sinclair had turned on the light in the first room, so he'd know even sooner that he wasn't hiding in there. Henry looked around, trying to find a crack of light or other clue as to where the next door would be. The windows were visible with the faint light from stars coming through, and the light from the first room helped him see that this room was also filled with tables, only these were covered with what looked like microscopes and test tubes and other chemistry equipment. Henry shivered at the thought of what Sinclair was experimenting on in here. He felt his way down the wall to the back of the room. As he moved along it, he found another door handle, but it was on the back wall so it either led outside or to a back room. Both possibilities were preferable. Footsteps were approaching the door he'd just come through.

"Henry, I discovered that you actually got close to me all of those years ago when I was in Santa Barbara to fix that Lazlo the Lizard problem," said Sinclair. "I was impressed. I actually waited and saw you and your partner. I do enjoy watching people flying through the air after explosions. It's so damned funny! And just think, if you'd been a little better and a little faster, you wouldn't be here right now, would you?"

Sinclair chuckled again, and the sound made Henry's skin crawl. He scowled and opened the door, ducking through and shutting it behind as quietly as he could. The metal case was starting to feel heavy, and the grip on his gun was getting a little slippery from sweat. This certainly wasn't how he'd hoped the mission would turn out, but it's what he had to deal with now. He looked around in confusion for a moment as his senses told him two conflicting things about his current location. First, he felt the presence of walls and thought he was still indoors, but he also felt fresh air and looked up to see the stars in the night sky. What was this place? He was either outside, or this room had a dirt floor where the others had been wood. And it had no roof. He peered around and felt a tingle of familiarity. He walked forward and realized there was a center aisle with wooden, wall-like structures on the sides. It came to him then. This was a shooting and combat training range, and he'd entered a room meant to simulate a building where enemies probably popped out from behind the sporadic barriers. The whole place had most likely been an old Army facility that Sinclair had moved into.

He looked back and saw the strip of light that told him Sinclair had turned on the lights of the second room. Hopefully he'd guess that Henry had moved to the third room and not that he'd gone out the back door, because right now Henry wasn't sure how to get out of this range. He realized with yet another stomach lurch that he might've just trapped himself in a dead end. He moved to the left wall and started around it quickly, hoping to find another back door.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn stared at his friend who was writhing on the floor, clutching his leg and gasping in pain. What had he done? Why had he come in here instead of waiting for the police? He took two steps and then dropped to his knees at Gus's side.

"Gus! Where are you hit?"

"Foot," hissed Gus through his grimace.

"Let me see."

"Give me that gun," snarled Morton, scooting his walker towards Ferdinand who was just gazing down at Shawn and Gus.

Shawn looked up at them. "The police are here, now. Are you really going to just shoot us?"

"Shut up you ungrateful brat!" yelled the old man.

"Excuse me?"

"Shawn," gasped Gus. "Don't make him mad. Please."

Shawn could see the hole in Gus's right shoe and some blood leaking out of it. It looked like it had gone through the outside edge of his foot. Hopefully it hadn't done too much damage. "Just hang in there, buddy," he said as he sat behind Gus and let him lean back against him. He suddenly noticed blood on his friend's shoulder and was about to say something when he realized it was from his own still-dripping nose. He put his left sleeve up to his face and cursed the snake venom.

"Give me the damned gun, Ferdinand," growled the old man as he scooted his walker closer to his employee. Ferdinand moved to the front door, though, before the old man could reach him. Morton pulled in a breath to yell and fell into another coughing fit.

There was a pounding at the door, and a voice yelled, "This is the SBPD. Please open this door. We have a warrant to search this residence."

"Ah, you damned pissants really did bring them," said Morton, glaring down at Shawn and Gus.

"We've been trying to tell you that you mothball-scented old creep," said Shawn. Gus tensed up and groaned through his gritted teeth.

Morton narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with you anyway? Why are you bleeding like that? You're ruining my carpet."

"You can thank your thug for that," said Shawn. "And have you considered that shooting us...well, shooting us more...might add a few stains?"

The pounding sounded against the door again. "Open up or we will force this door in."

"I've got hostages in here," screamed Morton. "If you come in we'll kill them!" He started coughing again and turned to ease himself into a chair, grasping for the oxygen mask on a nearby table. Ferdinand ducked into the kitchen and then came back out with two dish towels that he tossed at Shawn.

"Smooth move," said Shawn to Morton. He pushed one towel up against his nose while Gus gingerly wrapped the other one around his shoe. Shawn was tired of blood and wished his nose would stop flowing. It was going down the back of his throat as well, making him feel decidedly nauseous.

"Shut up, _psychic_," said Morton venomously. "If an idiot like you can con those cops into believing something like that, then I can con them into staying out long enough to watch you die from whatever poison Sinclair gave you." He grinned through his oxygen mask. "At least that bastard did one thing right, goddamned psycho." The old man suddenly sobbed, his anger melting into agony in an instant. "Poor Bob. He didn't deserve that. What have I done?"

Shawn regarded the old man with a sudden, involuntary feeling of rapport that made his stomach lurch threateningly.

"Shawn, let me lay down," said Gus. "I'm dizzy."

"Hang on, man. You're going to be okay," he said as he helped Gus lie back.

He reached up and pulled a small pillow off of the nearby couch to put under Gus's head. Morton scowled at him but kept his mask on. Ferdinand was hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, eyeing the front door nervously.

"Doesn't that guy ever talk?" asked Shawn as he pulled himself up onto the couch. He was feeling quite dizzy himself, and his head was pounding. He was fairly certain he'd have to hurl, soon, but he was fighting back the urge. He didn't want to give the evil old man the satisfaction of watching his suffering. He let his head fall back on the chair, but it made the blood flow more freely down his throat. He sat up again, gagging for a moment.

Morton eyed him hungrily. "Not much," he said without further explanation. "So what'd he get you with anyway? One of his slithery crawly beasts?"

"Screw you," groaned Shawn as he rested his left elbow on his knee and felt the towel getting soggy.

The old man laughed and wheezed into his mask, eyes twinkling like insane stars in the darkest night.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter groaned at the spike of pain in his chest when he tried to roll over. He paused for a moment, gasping for air, and wondered if the shot had broken some ribs. Cracked a few, he was pretty sure. He wished he could just lie still and breath without pain. He wished he was sleeping in the chair by Juliet's hospital bed. Better yet, he wished he was sleeping in his own bed at home and nothing else interesting was going on. Then he figured he might as well wish for a million dollars for all the good useless wishing was doing. He shifted onto his right side and pushed himself up, finally gaining his knees and sitting back on his heels with his head bowed for a few more moments of breathlessness. He raised his head then, blinking against the reawakened concussion headache. Small sparks of brightness kept flashing at the edges of his vision. He had to find Sinclair and Henry, hopefully before the former was able to harm the latter. Damn Spencer for not listening and allowing Sinclair to divide them like this. He sighed and pulled his right foot up in front, reaching for the gun in his ankle holster. No more wishing. It was time to deal with the current situation in all of its screwed-up glory. He gripped the cold comfort of the gun and focused his mind, ignoring irrelevant details like pain and fatigue as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Dizziness was harder to ignore, damn it all.

He stood still as the world settled its wobbling and listened for any clues as to where the other two men were. The sky didn't look too much darker than when he'd been shot, so he was pretty sure he'd only blacked out for a minute or two. He put his left hand on his vest and felt the bullet embedded in the material. With no vest, it would've gone straight through his heart. He drew in a deep, pain-spiked breath, teeth bared in a grimace. A sound caught his ear. It sounded like a voice. He raised his gun and stepped towards the open door to the creepy-crawly room. He heard the voice again in the next room over. It sounded like Sinclair, though all he could make out through the wall was the rumble of speech and not the words themselves. He hoped Henry hadn't actually been caught yet. Sinclair had said he was going to play hide and seek, so he might still be seeking. Lassiter stepped into the room, cringing at the thought of the creatures in the tanks as he picked his way around the tables, heading for the dividing wall. Something hissed and struck against glass next to his elbow and he flinched, cursing under his breath.

When he reached the wall, his eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light provided by the tanks to see the door. It was set in the dividing wall near the front of the building. He stood with his left ear to the door for a moment, but there were no more noises. He could see light under the door and realized the lights were on in the next room. It was going to be a risk stepping into a bright room after he was used to the darkness, but he wanted to hurry so Henry had backup. He pulled the door open and ducked down as he swept the gun around the next room. It was empty. It looked like some kind of mad scientist's lab with tables full of chemistry equipment. As he straightened up, he saw the door in the back wall. At that moment, he heard gunfire erupt from beyond it.

"Shit," he hissed as he rushed towards the back door. He'd heard at least two shots. A third one rang out. "Shit."

"Not smart to back yourself into a corner in hide and seek, Henry," said Sinclair.

Lassiter was at the door now and could hear him somewhat clearly, although he was pretty sure he wasn't very near the door. He hoped to have the element of surprise on his side.

"At least I know I have to go through you, now, to get out," growled Henry from a further distance. "Can't say I'm unhappy with that idea."

Lassiter was pretty sure Henry was somewhere to his left, in whatever room or space was through the door, and he thought Sinclair was to his right and closer.

Sinclair laughed. "You are your son's father," he said gleefully. "Letting your mouth get you into trouble."

"Maybe we let it get us out of trouble," said Henry.

There was another exchange of gunfire, and Lassiter decided it was time. He pulled open the door and rushed into the room, gun aimed towards his right side. He hadn't been expecting the layout he found, though. The familiarity of it jarred with the surprise of finding himself unexpectedly in a shooting range, and his brain took a moment to adjust. In that moment, a figure sprang up several feet away. He registered the deputy's uniform shirt and fired his gun the same instant, but in the next he realized the problem. The shirt was draped over a target dummy that had been triggered to pop up. His two quick shots thumped into the dummy's chest. Lassiter was ducking before the thought was even clear in his mind as another blur of movement appeared. Sinclair rose up and aimed at him, but a shot rang out to his left before the hitman could fire. Wood splintered in the barrier Sinclair was sheltering behind and he readjusted his aim with lightning speed and returned fire on Henry, squeezing off two quick shots. Lassiter aimed and fired only a moment later, but the killer had already ducked behind his shelter again as Lassiter's shots sank into the wood of the wall beyond.

Lassiter scooted behind a nearby shelter and tucked up against its pop-up dummy as he checked his weapon and listened. He heard a gasp and felt his stomach turn to ice. It had come from Henry's corner of the room.

"Now THAT was fun!" crowed Sinclair. "Winged you, Henry. I think that means you're found, right? Do you agree, Carlton?"

"Henry, are you okay?" yelled Lassiter.

There was no sound for a moment, and Lassiter's heart crawled into his throat, but then there was another gasp and a cough that sounded like a "No."

"I got him in the vest and the arm, Carlton, so he's not feeling well at the moment. I think you understand the sensation," said Sinclair.

"Shut up, asshole. I'm covering this door now, so don't get smug."

"I've got many more cards up my sleeve," said Sinclair with an edge to his voice. "You can't even come close to touching me. I own this game. I'm just choosing to let you entertain me."

"Wow, you are even more sick and twisted than I thought," growled Lassiter as he loaded a fresh clip into his gun. He wanted to pour every bullet he had into the wooden barrier so he could cut through it and send his last round into Sinclair's brain.

"I don't think you have the imagination to dream of how sick and twisted I am, Carlton. Maybe that's why the two Spencers get on your nerves so badly? You are the plodding intellect to their speedy insight."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Can we just do this now so I don't have to listen to your crap anymore?" He heard Henry cough and groan again and felt a tinge of relief that he was at least still breathing.

Sinclair laughed mirthlessly. "Sounds good. I'm getting bored. Let's spice this up, shall we?"

There was a faint clicking sound. Lassiter peeked around the edge of his barrier and saw a small glow coming from the other side of Sinclair's shelter, then he heard a sizzle. His heart fluttered with panic.

"I wonder how long this fuse is," said Sinclair. "Some are fast and some are slow, kind of like people, eh Carlton?"

A small tube sailed from behind the barrier and landed in the dirt on the other side of Henry's shelter, trailing a sparking glow as it flew. Dynamite. Lassiter's eyes widened and he started running before he even completed the thought that he had no choice. Henry was hurt, so even if he called a warning, he might not be able to run away fast enough or get around the barrier to grab the dynamite and throw it away. He knew as he was moving that he'd exposed himself, but that was the other part of the no choice aspect. He ran towards the sparking and spitting cylinder, expecting it to send him into oblivion even as he skidded up to it and reached down to grasp it and turned to toss it towards the door that he knew Sinclair had already escaped through. He was just as shocked that he'd actually gotten it clear as he was at the force of the explosion that sent him tumbling into the back wall of the range. He fell to the ground halfway behind Henry's barrier and tried to blink away the remnants of the blast from his vision as he pulled the rest of his body behind the cover. Henry was on his stomach a foot away with his right arm protecting his head. He looked up after a moment and met Lassiter's gaze.

"Hi," he said dazedly.

"Hi," said Lassiter with a rasp that made him cough for a moment. "Are you hit?"

"Left arm. Not bad," said Henry. He pushed himself to his knees and peered around the edge of the barrier. "What the hell was that?"

"Dynamite."

"Jesus. Why did he blow up his own wall?"

"He actually tossed it over here," said Lassiter as he pulled himself into a sitting position. "So that he could get out."

"Oh," said Henry with the shock clear on his face as he looked at Lassiter. "YOU threw it over there."

Lassiter nodded.

"Gotcha," said Henry, still looking shocked and also a little abashed. Then his face screwed up in pain. He leaned forward for a moment, holding his right hand to his vest where Lassiter could see a bullet hole in the material. "Oh, man, this hurts."

"Sure does," said Lassiter as he fingered the smooth end of the bullet in his own vest. He could see, though, that Sinclair's other bullet had grazed Henry's left arm as well. It wasn't bleeding too badly, luckily, but he knew it had to hurt. He pulled out his handkerchief and moved to Henry's side. "Let me tie this on."

Henry winced at the movement of his arm. "Not too...OW!"

"Sorry," mumbled Lassiter, not feeling particularly bad at having tightened the makeshift bandage a little harder than necessary on Henry's wound. He was starting to settle down from the action, and his emotions were catching up.

"I suppose I deserve that," said Henry. He looked at Lassiter. "You were right. I should've waited."

Lassiter blinked with surprise. He hadn't expected an apology, just the usual excuses. "Yeah," was all he could think to say.

"But I found this," said Henry. He pulled the metal case over. "Antidotes."

"Thank god," said Lassiter wholeheartedly. Now they just had to make their way back to the car. "Let's get the hell out of here." He looked around the edge of the barrier, squinting into the smoke that was still lingering around the new gaping hole in the building's wall where the door used to be. He couldn't see any movement in the room beyond. "Can you carry that case?"

"Yeah, I'll manage. It only hurts when I move it around," said Henry wryly. "I can keep a grip."

"Good. Is there any other door out of this range?"

"No, I checked."

Lassiter sighed. "So, we've got two options."

Henry nodded. "Door number 1 or door number 2."

"Let's be clear up front...do you want to split up again or stick together?" asked Lassiter as he met Henry's gaze. He could make arguments for both options himself. They had a 50/50 chance of picking the door where Sinclair would spring his next attack. If they split up, one of them would almost certainly be able to get away. They hadn't given Sinclair enough time to set elaborate traps, he hoped, unless the man had booby traps already prepped that were easy to activate. He frowned at the idea and hoped it wasn't accurate. But he figured that Sinclair was just making up his "games" as they went along, so he most likely couldn't cover both exits. They had the antidotes now, which had to be saved, so sticking together might give them a better chance of fighting through Sinclair's attack and keeping the meds safe.

"We have to get this stuff out," said Henry, nodding at the metal case. "Let's stick together. Strength in numbers."

Lassiter nodded. "Fine. Which door?"

Henry considered. "The one I came through had his explosives in it. There's a chance he could've set some kind of tripwire or other device in there. Maybe we should go through the other one."

"The other one has all the bugs and snakes," said Lassiter with a grimace. "But, yeah, let's go through it. Just hurry, in case he opened all of the cages or something. I'll lead the way."

Henry's brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"

"I'll hit any traps first, or draw his fire. You get that stuff out of here. If things seem really bad, just get to the car and go," he said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. "Take these."

"I won't leave without you," said Henry with a frown as he put the keys in his pocket.

"The hell you won't," growled Lassiter as he checked his gun again and started feeling a renewed rush of adrenalin. "This whole trip will be a waste if you don't get those antidotes back to Shawn. We didn't come out here to commit a double-suicide."

"We didn't come out here to commit ANY suicides," said Henry with a hint of anger.

Lassiter paused and met Henry's gaze. "Look, we both knew what could happen here. We hoped it wouldn't but we knew, deep down, that it might. And it did. So let's stop arguing about it and get the job done. I'm the cop, here. I'm going to do my job."

Henry closed his eyes and shook his head, but then he nodded. "Alright," he said with resignation. "Let's go."

Lassiter drew in a deep breath and peered around the edge of the barrier again. Henry hefted the case with a hiss of pain and then nodded at Lassiter's questioning look. Lassiter raised his gun and moved out from behind the barrier, eyes straining for any movement in the next room. He could feel Henry follow, staying a step or two behind his right shoulder. They reached the blasted opening and swept the room, Lassiter left and Henry right, confirming that Sinclair had moved on through. Both of the doors to the next rooms were open. The lights were off in the explosives room, but they were on in the other room. Lassiter knew they hadn't been on in the bug room when he'd come through, so Sinclair had definitely been in there since the blast. There was no telling if he was still there, though. He could've left the light on knowing Lassiter would remember they'd been off in order to herd them towards the explosives room. He figured they might as well stick to their plan. He looked at Henry who was also regarding both open doors with an anxious expression. Henry met his gaze and shrugged. Lassiter nodded and tilted his head at the bug room. They moved towards the open door as silently as they could.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

"So let me get this straight," said Shawn through the gradually-soaking dish towel. "You've done all of this just to get your kid out of trouble? Did he call to say 'thank you' yet? I know if my dad hired a batshit insane psychopath to hurt people on my behalf and ended up getting his best friend killed in the process, I'd be bringing him a case of beer. Or I'd at least call."

The old man's face grew red behind the oxygen mask. Ferdinand took a threatening step into the room.

"Shawn," hissed Gus.

The phone rang.

"Hey, maybe that's him now!" said Shawn brightly, but he glared at the old man over the wadded up towel. "Make sure to tell him about the blood. He'll be so proud!" He pulled the towel away from his face for a moment and waved it at the old man.

Morton reached for his phone while giving Shawn a look of pure hatred. Shawn smirked before returning the towel, then he looked down to meet Gus's eyes and winked. Gus frowned and shook his head, but Shawn had decided to go on the offensive in his usual manner...by being offensive. He was fed up and sick and, well...dying...and he was tired of crazy old men and crazy hitmen and mute henchmen, or whatever the hell was up with the Ferdinand guy. They listened as the old man spoke to whichever police negotiator was on the line. He groused at the negotiator and made some ridiculous demand for a helicopter to take him and Ferdinand to Mexico. Shawn saw his eyes starting to twinkle again as he flashed him a venomous look, and he knew the codger was just stalling until he got sicker. His mind started to race, trying to figure out how to get away without getting Gus shot again. He didn't care about himself so much anymore, and he would've rushed Ferdinand already if he thought Gus could get up and run out fast enough, but his friend's foot was too injured for that plan.

Morton hung up the phone and chuckled. Shawn stood up and started to pace at the end of the room, pausing near a hallway to peer down its length. He wondered if there was a back door to the place. Ferdinand narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on the gun, then he took a step closer to Gus. Shawn grimaced and took a moment to refold the dish towel, exposing a dry spot to hold against his nose.

"Nice place you got here, Mortie," said Shawn.

"Don't call me that," hissed the old man.

"I guess being a failed mob lawyer has its perks," said Shawn, ignoring him. He gazed at some pictures on a bookshelf. "Where's your wife?"

"Don't talk about her, you little shit."

"I see a lot of pictures of your son and wife together. I guess you were the one taking them? You didn't have a butler or something to take them for you?"

Morton glared daggers at him.

"Oh, I get it! He liked his mom more than you? Hey man, don't sweat it. That happens a lot. I, myself, thought my mom could do no wrong and blamed my dad for everything bad that happened," said Shawn, feeling his breath hitch at the words as an image of his dad standing outside of the chief's office that one day at the station flashed through his mind. He'd always blamed his dad for their breakup, and then his mom had admitted to him that she'd been the one to leave. It had been an exceedingly confusing and perspective-flipping moment that he was still working through in many ways. Somehow, he knew that Morton's relationship with his son was a very sore subject, and he hoped that poking at it enough times would cause something to happen. Hopefully not something fatal to himself, or at least not to Gus.

"My wife was a saint," rasped the old man who seemed to be having difficulty speaking through his anger.

"I bet," said Shawn. "If she had you as a husband and that dickhead for a son."

Morton pulled himself to his feet. "Give me the gun," he said, holding his hand out to Ferdinand.

"Dude! That tune is getting old," said Shawn derisively. "You already said you want to watch me die of this poison."

"I can shoot your friend here," growled the old man. "What was it you said? I got my best friend killed in the process of this? Well, you're right, I did. He was a good man, better than any of you asshole cops. So, how about I kill this kid, and then you'll be in my boat. Right, psychic? He's your best friend, isn't he? How about you get him killed, and we'll be even?"

Shawn swallowed and felt his gag reflex threaten. This wasn't exactly how he wanted his offensive-minded plan to go. He met the old man's gaze for a few moments, then he said, "You're right. We are even, in a way. I think we're even in the way we've screwed over our relationships by being self-righteous and pigheaded."

"What the hell are you babbling about? I think that venom went to your brain."

"Maybe, and it makes me physically ill to see that you and I actually have something in common, but I think we've both held people to standards we don't hold ourselves to. I'm not sure why we do that, are you? Why do you expect your son to be something he's not? Why do I expect my dad to be anything other than what he is?" He paused as a wave of dizziness hit him and sent his thoughts swirling. He wasn't even sure what he was trying to say, but he hoped whatever it was would keep the old man from shooting Gus. The swirling seemed to move from his head and down his throat. He swallowed with difficulty. "Or maybe I meant that the other way around..." he mumbled.

Morton's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "You are just full to the brim of shit, aren't you? Does anything you say make sense?"

"Yes, actually. I totally meant it when I said I was physically ill," he said through clenched teeth. "Do you want me to barf here or in a toilet?"

"Gah! First door on the left," said Morton with a wave of his hand.

Shawn turned and rushed down the hallway, holding the towel tighter to his mouth now that he felt his stomach rebelling with a vengeance. He could hear steps and figured Ferdinand was following to keep an eye on him, but he didn't care. In that moment, all he wanted was relief.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter could feel his sore ribs protest every time his heart thudded as they drew closer to the open door. He had a bad feeling about what was going to happen, but the thought of going through the other door wasn't any better. They were in for it, whichever route they chose, he could feel it in his bones. He just hoped they'd survive. He wanted to see his partner's bright smile again, and smell the acrid gunpowder-atmosphere of the range, and sit on his couch with a glass of Jameson and a marathon of _Cops_ after a long shift, and hear the familiar squeak of his rolling chair at the station. He gripped his gun tighter and sharpened his gaze when he was one step from the open door. There was a space behind it in the room where Sinclair could be hiding. He had a sudden urge to just fire at the door, but he held back. He felt Henry still close behind. He trusted him to back him up as much as he trusted any fellow officer. They were a single unit, in that moment. He took a breath and stepped over the threshold.

"Lass...!" yelled Henry at the same moment the shots were fired.

Lassiter saw two holes appear in quick succession in the wooden door and thought for a moment that Henry had fired at it, but then another shot came through and he realized the wood was splintering outwards. He cursed himself for not following his earlier impulse as he lunged forward to get into the room and away from the door. In his periphery, for a brief instant, he saw Henry diving the other direction, back into the other room. He was turning, swinging his gun around to bear on the door as it was kicked forward by the hitman who was holding his gun in his left hand, to Lassiter's surprise. In his right hand was a shovel that Sinclair was in the process of heaving in a backhanded swing. Lassiter leveled his gun on the man, but as he was pulling the trigger the shovel connected. It wasn't the hardest hit, since Sinclair was wielding it one-handed, but the top corner of the spade jammed sharply into his upper arm. His gun went off, but he already knew he'd missed.

He ducked backwards as the shovel continued its arc and almost connected with his head. In turning away from the swing, he stumbled and spun to his left. His arm was tingling where the shovel had speared it. His turn brought him up against one of the tables, and his right arm ended up slamming into the top of a large aquarium. The lid of it collapsed inwards and his gun followed, dropping from his numbing fingers and tumbling inside to come to rest against a leafy branch on the floor of the glass box. For a frozen moment, he just blinked at it sitting there a foot and a half away as he leaned against the table and the top part of the aquarium. Then a giant spider jumped onto the gun.

He gasped and took a step back, spinning to face the hitman he could feel looming. He expected another swing of the shovel or more gunfire, but Sinclair was just grinning at him and standing loose and relaxed. Lassiter's eyes flicked to the door, and he saw that it was bolted shut.

"Lassiter!" yelled Henry from the other side.

"Just go, Henry!" he rasped, his throat feeling like sand. "Go now!"

There was no answer, and Lassiter hoped that for once one of the Spencers would actually listen to him.

"Good plan," said Sinclair, eyes twinkling. Then he took a step closer and whispered conspiratorially. "Although, he'll have to watch his step in the other room."

Lassiter's eyes widened. "Henry, it's wired! Be careful!" he screamed, hoping Henry hadn't already hurried away. His shoulders hunched as he braced himself against another explosion.

"Aww, how sweet," said Sinclair. "I was wondering if you might just keep that information to yourself, knowing how you feel about them."

"Shut up you sick bastard," hissed Lassiter. He glanced around, looking for some kind of weapon to use against the killer. The tank holding his gun was too big to pick up, but there was a smaller tank on the table next to it. Ideas began to flood his mind.

"You need to freshen up your insults," said Sinclair with a grimace. Then he hefted the shovel. "Look at this...I brought a spade to bury your sorry hide with."

Lassiter swallowed and then donned his best sneer. "Like you'd actually dig a hole. You're just a typical hitman, too fancy to get your hands dirty."

"Oh, now, don't be bitter."

"I doubt you even know how to kill someone the hard way, hands on," continued Lassiter, saying anything that came to his mind, stalling as he started to inch towards the table. "You use these ridiculous bugs, and explosives are just plain lazy."

Sinclair grinned with delight. "I see what you're doing. You really aren't subtle at all. You want to goad me into putting my gun down and fighting hand to hand, right?"

Lassiter shrugged and took a half step closer to the table he'd stumbled against.

"Fine," said Sinclair, his smile dropping as his gaze sharpened. "I'm getting bored, and I imagine the backup you summoned is getting close now. It's time to finish up." He stuck the gun into the front of his waistband and hefted the shovel in both hands, shifting his stance in the process. "Let's get hands on."

**OoOoOoO**

Henry was looking at the space in the hinge-side of the door when he saw movement and realized Sinclair was hiding behind it. He started to yell Lassiter's name as he was aiming his gun to fire, but then the hitman started shooting. The wood floor near his left foot splintered, and he turned to dive away to his right. He heard two more shots as he flattened himself, face-first, against the front wall of the building. The door slammed and he turned, keeping his back to the wall and inching towards the corner. He heard another shot and dropped into a crouch, then came the sounds of a metallic, thudding noise, a grunt, and finally a bolt sliding into place on the door. There was a moment of pure silence.

"Lassiter!" he yelled as he leveled his gun at the closed door. If he didn't hear a response, he was going to shoot through the wood.

"Just go, Henry! Go now!" yelled the detective, sounding hoarse.

Henry guessed that Sinclair had gotten the drop on the detective and had probably managed to disarm him. But he was alive, and Henry couldn't tell where he was in the room, so he couldn't shoot through the door. He cursed under his breath and turned towards the explosives room. He knew Lassiter had told him to leave, and part of him wanted to do just that as he imagined what shape Shawn might be in, but he shoved aside all of those thoughts. First, he had to get out of the damned building alive.

He heard muffled words from the other room, and then Lassiter screamed, "Henry, it's wired! Be careful!"

Henry drew in a breath and blew it out again through his mouth as he regarded the open door to the explosives room. The lights were off. They had been on before, so Sinclair had obviously gone through it again. Henry tried to remember what he'd seen in the room in order to anticipate what kind of trap Sinclair had set, but it had been dark his first time through as well. He couldn't remember details. He walked across the middle room but paused a few steps from the doorway. He leaned down and put the case on the floor in order to rest his aching left arm. The pain was radiating into his shoulder and chest, and it made it hard to focus.

He thought about what kinds of things the hitman could've rigged in the time he'd had from escaping the range. It hadn't been long. He wouldn't have set a timed bomb, because he couldn't know when they'd go through the room. It would be too easy to miss them. The floor was wood, so there would be no buried, weight-sensitive mines like the one in the road outside. He could've set some wire-triggered explosives, though. That could be why he turned off the lights again, as well, so it would be harder to see the wires. Henry wished he still had the big flashlight, but he'd left it behind when he'd found the case of antidotes. Plus, he didn't have enough hands to carry it anymore. He drew in another breath and crouched down. He could still hear mumbling from the other room and wondered what Lassiter and Sinclair could possibly be discussing.

**OoOoOoO**

Shawn focused on breathing and only breathing. He was sweating and shivering, and bright lights were flashing in his vision even though his eyes were closed. But all he cared about was the suddenly complicated process of drawing in oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide. Expelling...bad word choice, he thought, as he felt another dry heave threatening. He swallowed and focused on breathing. Finally, his stomach seemed to settle, and his thoughts grew less fuzzy. He sat back and avoided looking into the toilet. The one glance he'd accidentally taken during this episode had shown a lot of red in the bowl. Too much red. He pushed away and sat on the floor with his back against the shower door. He opened his eyes and saw Ferdinand hovering in the hallway, casting uncomfortable glances at him.

Shawn thought about asking the man for a mint, but he wasn't sure the guy would get the joke, and he really didn't want a mint. Instead, he just said lamely, "I think I'm done."

Ferdinand looked at him again and almost appeared sympathetic, but Shawn wasn't sure he could trust his impressions. He was still very dizzy and his thoughts seemed...untrustworthy. He wasn't even sure he was seeing straight when Ferdinand stepped into the bathroom and lowered his gun.

"I want to give up," he whispered to Shawn with a thick accent.

Shawn blinked and wondered if he was hallucinating. "You can talk?"

"I want to give up. No more gun and this...prisoner," he said with a vague wave at the other room.

"Why?" asked Shawn. He was pretty sure he hadn't scared the guy into quitting. At least, he didn't remember any movies or TV shows where the hero puked the bad guy into submission.

Ferdinand stepped over to the sink and put the gun down. Then he grabbed a hand towel and soaked it in some water before holding it out to Shawn. He took the damp towel and wiped at his face, feeling a small rush of gratitude at the gesture.

"The old man, not nice. Mr. Gray is nice. Takes care of me and Javier, my cousin. Javier is one who set fire," he said, waving at Shawn. "In jail. Mr. Gray say he will get out. The old man I hear talk on phone to killer, say kill Javier. Mr. Gray, good man. Old man, no good. I do not die for him."

Shawn stared at him for a moment, his brain processing the words sluggishly. Finally, he just said, "Okay."

Ferdinand nodded and held out a hand. "Now, you stand. Take gun. Tell police to no shoot."

Shawn took his hand and stood up, still leaning heavily against the shower door. He took a few more breaths as the world tipped and swayed before finally settling. "Okay," he said again, hoping he wasn't dreaming everything.

Ferdinand picked up the gun and put it in Shawn's right hand, then he held his left elbow and helped him walk out of the bathroom. Shawn felt like he was floating and wondered why his feet weren't hitting the ground. They moved into the living room. Gus was sitting up with his back against the couch, looking miserable. When he saw Shawn and the gun, though, his eyes lit up with surprise. The old man saw them, too, and stood up menacingly.

"You sonofabitch!" he screeched. He reached down and grabbed his glass from the table and flung it towards Shawn and Ferdinand. "No! What are you doing?"

"Sit!" hissed Ferdinand as he dodged the glass. He pushed Shawn towards the front door. "You said to kill Javier."

"I didn't agree to it, you ungrateful bastard!" yelled the old man. "I just considered it."

Shawn tried to focus on walking straight, keeping his gaze locked on the door. In his peripheral vision, he saw the old man pick up his phone and draw his arm back as if to throw it at him. He paused and turned to aim the gun at him. "Put it down," he growled. "You're done, you sick old creep."

The old man seemed to crumple. The phone fell from his grip and he dropped back heavily into his chair. He groaned and cradled his head in his hands. "Everyone's gone," he moaned.

"Just got yourself to blame for that," mumbled Shawn as he turned to the door again. He took another step and stumbled, falling to one knee.

Gus jumped up and hobbled to his side. "Shawn," he said, voice dripping with concern. "Hang on, man. I got it now."

He took the gun from Shawn's hand and limped to the front door.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter eyed Sinclair as the hitman kept shifting his stance and his hold on the shovel. He knew he was going to swing it soon, but he kept feinting jabs and holds so he couldn't tell when. Lassiter took another step back. He was almost against the table again. The large aquarium was right behind his back. He hoped the damned spider couldn't jump out of it since the lid was off. The table was placed parallel to the front wall of the room, which he was roughly facing now as he retreated another step from the hitman's slow advance. Next to the large aquarium was a smaller one, and Lassiter's mind was focused on its image as he took one more step back so that he was further from Sinclair and closer to the smaller box. He glanced sideways and saw his gun again in the bottom of the large cage. He couldn't see the spider anymore.

"I see your wheels turning," said Sinclair.

Lassiter narrowed his eyes and drew in a breath. He'd faced off with enough perps to know the signs to watch for which signaled that they were going to make a move. He tried to give off those same signals now to Sinclair, flicking his eyes from side to side and then bracing himself to lunge. Sinclair paused his advance and drew the shovel back to swing at Lassiter's rush. But instead of rushing, Lassiter spun to the table and grabbed the smaller aquarium. He twisted again and flung it towards the hitman. As the box started flying through the air, he turned to the table and crouched down as he heaved against it, tipping it and the large aquarium over. Through the noise of the table crashing, he heard Sinclair grunt as the small aquarium smashed into him and then shattered on the floor. Lassiter saw his gun skid into an open area of the floor between other tables and jumped over the overturned table, vision tunneling to the promise of his weapon.

"Oh no you don't," growled Sinclair.

Footsteps pounded behind him as Lassiter scrambled for his gun. He was two steps away from it when his foot slipped on one of the leafy sticks from the aquarium. He fell to his hands and knees and reached out, grasping his gun, but before he could rise and twist around, something heavy smacked into his back. The blow from the shovel was somewhat dispersed by his vest, but the force of it still knocked him back to his hands and knees. Once more, a blow hit him in the back, only this time it was from the edge of the shovel instead of the flat judging from the sharp pain that seemed to crack across his left shoulder blade and ribs. He gasped and flopped onto his stomach, then he curled onto his right side and tried to bring the gun to bear one more time as he rolled over.

Before he could finish the move, he saw Sinclair's foot kicking out. It connected with his right wrist, and his gun flew out of his hand. Lassiter tried to see where the gun had landed, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the blur of the hitman's shoe right before it stomped down on his chest, just over where the bullet was still embedded in his vest. His vision was blanked out by bright flashes, and he was sure, for an instant, that his breathing would never return. Somehow, though, he managed to wrap his arms around Sinclair's foot on his chest. He curled around again onto his left side, more out of a reflexive desire to protect his injured ribs than out of a cognitive plan to upend the killer, but luckily the move resulted in just that. Sinclair lost his balance and fell heavily onto his side. Lassiter blinked at the flashes in his vision and tried to draw in a proper breath. For a moment his only thought was for air, but as oxygen returned he tried to locate Sinclair who had yanked his foot away after the fall and was out of his sight again.

He uncurled so he could look around and found that the killer was back on his feet and seemed to be throwing a temper tantrum. Lassiter blinked and tried to make sense of what was happening. Then he realized that Sinclair was stomping on something on the ground. Lassiter pushed up onto his left elbow, feeling the protest of his shovel-abused back, and saw the juicy carcass of one of the giant spiders. Sinclair stepped back from the remains and whipped around to Lassiter. His teeth were bared and his eyes were almost glowing with a wild intensity.

"Do you know how much those cost?" he hissed as he advanced again.

Lassiter scrambled to regain his feet, but the hitman reached him first and grabbed the front of his vest, dragging him upright and pushing him back against another table with an even larger aquarium. Lassiter reached for Sinclair's throat when he found that he couldn't easily claw at his eyes or jam the heel of his hand into his nose, but the killer sensed his intent and shook him just enough that his hands ended up gripping the front of his shirt only. He tried to pull Sinclair closer, hoping he'd be expecting a push instead, and brought a knee up intending a blow to the groin. Again, Sinclair seemed to sense his maneuver and twisted so that his knee only hit the outside of his hip.

Sinclair kicked out and clipped the inside of Lassiter's left knee which gave out at the impact. Then the hitman pulled him up by the vest as he lost his balance and drew his face in close. "Child's play," he hissed into Lassiter's face.

Sinclair stepped back and pulled Lassiter along while he was still off-balance, the vest unfortunately giving him a good strong grip so that he could maintain leverage as he spun. He twisted and flung Lassiter into one of the tables, the edge of which hit him across his back, igniting the damage that had already been done there. His knees wobbled and threatened to give out as he tried to use the table for support to remain standing. Sinclair advanced again. Lassiter leaned to one side as if he was collapsing, but when Sinclair got another step closer he lunged upwards and swung his right arm around with a haymaker punch. The killer pulled up, but the blow still landed partially and knocked his head back as it connected with his jaw. Lassiter pushed off with his not-so-stable knees and drove his right shoulder into Sinclair's midsection, hearing the whoosh of air from the hitman. He pulled back, intending to deliver another shoulder-charge into the man when he sensed the shift just before Sinclair brought his clasped hands down hard on Lassiter's bruised left shoulder blade. Lassiter's left knee finally failed and he ended up with just his right foot on the ground as he tried to hang onto Sinclair to keep from falling over completely. Sinclair twisted out of his grip and moved around to his left side. He grabbed the back of Lassiter's vest and held him up for a moment.

"Time to meet some friends," he growled, breathing hard, then he started to heave him up and back.

Lassiter tried to regain his footing and twist out of the killer's grip. He wasn't sure what Sinclair was planning but he knew he didn't want to find out. His breath was laboring and his whole chest felt like it was full of needles poking into his lungs.

Sinclair pulled Lassiter back further. "I'm very proud of them," he said. Then he grunted as he took a step, first pulling Lassiter along and then pushing him forward and face first into the glass side of the extra-large aquarium.

Lassiter caught a glimpse of sand and rocks before ducking his head and bringing up his right arm to cover his face. His elbow shattered the glass, then his arm and head and shoulder all ended up inside the aquarium. The relatively unabused right side of his chest slammed into the edge of the table, and he ended up on his knees with his right arm draped across the sandy bottom of the aquarium as broken glass pinched at him. For a dazed moment, he just stayed in that position, wondering in an oddly detached part of his mind if Henry had gotten away yet. He hadn't heard any explosions. He was getting his ass kicked, but he was pretty sure he would've noticed an explosion. Then his mind seemed to clear enough that he started to pull back, gathering his legs under him and putting his left hand on the edge of the table in the beginnings of a move to extract himself from the broken cage. Before he could do that, though, he felt the first sting.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Henry peered into the darkness of the explosives room and caught the brief shimmer of something a few inches off the ground near the doorway. He moved from his crouch into a kneeling position, holding his left arm against his side with his right wrist, keeping his gun in his hand in case the door behind him opened. His left arm was throbbing, though, from so much moving around. He leaned forward, squinting, and finally saw the whole of the clear filament wire strung across the doorway. He sat back again and sighed. Was that the only one? It was almost impossible to see. How could he make his way through the whole room if there was more than one? He figured there were probably wires across both doorways, this one and the exit to the outside, but Sinclair would know that was too obvious, wouldn't he? He would put some in the middle of the room too.

He stood up again, feeling tired as hell and more than a little dizzy. Time was running out. He was going to have to just go through the room and hope for the best. He couldn't really hear any more talking in the other room, and he started to wonder what was happening, but then he made out the distinct sounds of a struggle. He had to go. He had to get the medicine to his son, but he also had to help Lassiter. The man had saved his life, and the antivenoms as well. He picked up the case and moved to the doorway. Very carefully, he stepped over the wire. He wasn't even sure he was focusing 100% correctly on the spot because the wire was so invisible, but he knew close enough to avoid it. After he was that one step into the room, though, he froze. There could be more of them anywhere. He paused and looked around, then an idea occurred to him. There was a table near his right side. He put his gun back in its holster and then shifted the case to his right hand. Without moving his feet, he put the case up onto the table. Then he lifted his left knee up to the edge of the table and pushed off with his right foot, pulling himself with some difficulty onto the surface because, first, it was a fairly high table, and second, he had to do it all essentially one-armed.

From the top of the table he stood up and surveyed his next move. There were two more tables that would get him most of the way through the room, if he jumped from one to the other like stones in a pond. They were far enough apart that he wasn't terribly confident in making the jumps, but he figured it would be easier than tiptoeing through the minefield of the floor. The other problem would be trying to make the jumps with the case in his hands. He looked down at his current table and found a roll of flexible wire. He unwound a length of it and cut it with his pocket knife, then he looped it through the case handle, tied off the ends, and slung it over his head and one shoulder so that the case was hanging at his back. It felt awkward and cumbersome and the wire was uncomfortable, but at least his hands were free. He heard a loud crashing sound from the other room and felt his heart start to race even faster. He promised himself to get the stress test and cholesterol check he'd been putting off once all of this was finished. Then he drew in a breath and launched himself through the air.

The other problem with jumping from table to table, he realized as he landed, was that the surfaces were cluttered with other items. His foot skidded and he fell to his knees with a jarring impact as the case thumped heavily against his back. He scrambled to grab the edge of the table before sliding off. He caught himself in time, but then the whole table rocked for a moment as if it might tip. His muscles strained as he tried to will the table to stay upright. He was looking down, over the edge of it, and saw a shimmer as some small tools fell off and jostled a trip wire directly underneath. His breath caught as he was sure for an instant that he was going to explode. Nothing too heavy fell against the wire, though, and it only vibrated for a moment before falling still again. Henry felt like he was going to throw up. He drew in a few slow breaths, then he eyed the next table. The jump wasn't as far this time, luckily, and the table didn't have as much clutter on top of it. After that table, he'd have to risk a few steps through the room before being able to jump out the door. He stood up, feeling too shaky, and drew in another deep breath before launching himself to the last table. This landing was much calmer, and he started to feel like he was going to make it out of the nightmare as he looked out the open door and saw the faint twinkles of stars in the sky.

He leaned over and peered at the floor next to the table, turning his head from side to side and moving back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of any elusive wires. Nothing seemed to be there, so he pulled his legs around and sat on the edge, then pushed off and landed on the floor. He crouched down and was at the right angle to see the trip wire in the doorway. The light from the night sky helped to illuminate it. He squinted and swayed from side to side, trying to see if there were any others in between his position and the last wire. Nothing seemed to be there, and his thoughts were starting to race ahead to what he had to do once he was out the door. He had the bad feeling that Lassiter wasn't faring well against Sinclair, and he hoped he could get over to the other entrance in time to help. He straightened up and put his left foot forward as he took a step towards the door.

As his right foot was moving forward, he caught the shimmer of a wire. His foot was going to hit it. He tried to readjust his step and raised his right foot higher so that it would clear the wire, but in doing so he unbalanced and started to fall sideways. He couldn't drag his left foot through as he stumbled, so he tried to push off with it, awkwardly, so that he ended up for a brief moment in midair. His right foot came down just beyond the wire and he bent his left knee so his foot wouldn't drag across. He was only another step from the door now, and the door's wire, so he did another hopscotch move with his right foot, launching off of it and swinging his left foot high and forward to leap the last wire. He finally landed outside of the building, catching himself on his left foot, but he was totally off balance by that point and ended up falling to his knee and then rolling onto his back. The landing was made exponentially more awkward by the case strapped to his back. He lay still for a moment, resting uncomfortably against the case and staring up into the night sky.

"That was graceful," he whispered, finally thinking about how close he'd come to blowing up.

Then he thought about how hard the case had been bouncing around. He shrugged out of the makeshift sling and opened it, stomach twisting at the thought of broken vials, but all of the little glass bottles looked fine upon inspection. He sighed and swiped a hand across his face. A gut-wrenching scream echoed across the night.

**OoOoOoO**

Gus stood at the front door, gun in hand, feeling lightheaded, sick from the pain in his foot, and scared to death for his friend. He looked back at Shawn once more. His friend was so pale and fragile-looking. Gus wasn't used to seeing him like that. And the blood. He couldn't stand the sight of the blood flowing from Shawn's nose. It seemed to be smudged around his mouth, too, and Gus tried to stop himself from imagining what had happened in the bathroom. He swallowed the lump in his throat and drew in a breath. He could see the red and blue cacophony of lights through the frosted glass of the front door's windows. He opened the door a crack.

"This is Burton Guster!" he yelled. "I've got the gun now! We're not hostages anymore!"

"Mr. Guster, this is Chief Vick," came the chief's commanding voice. "Can you throw the weapon out the door?"

"Yeah," he yelled, then he opened the door some more and tossed the gun onto the front step.

"Tell everyone inside to get on their knees and put their hands on their heads," ordered the chief.

"Okay!"

"We're coming in now," she said.

Gus limped away from the door and dropped to his knees at Shawn's side.

"Thanks man," whispered Shawn, eyes looking glazed. "I think I owe you some churros."

"Don't sweat it," said Gus.

He looked around as they both put their hands up. Ferdinand was already on his knees, hands on his head and eyes downcast. The old man was still just sitting in his chair and moaning, but when the officers came flooding in, he raised his hands at their orders, staring almost blankly at the guns aimed at him. Gus wondered if he'd simply gone crazy or had fallen into a sudden dementia. He didn't care, in any case. He just wanted to get Shawn back to the hospital. The next few minutes were a daze of questions from the chief and then the paramedics who began to tend to him and Shawn. They were both loaded into an ambulance, then, and Gus got a little floaty during the ride to the hospital.

After arrival, they were split up, which he protested. But he lost the argument. He felt suddenly lost and alone in the emergency room cubbyhole where they'd parked him after taking some quick x-rays of his foot. No one was there to sit with him or distract him. He dug out his phone and called his parents, but they were on vacation in Canada. He tried to keep his voice even as he told them everything that had been happening and everything that had gone on that night. They told him how much they loved him and asked if he wanted them to come back right away, but he said no. Finally, a doctor arrived and told him that the bullet had cracked one of the bones in his foot, but otherwise it hadn't caused major damage. He said they would just have to clean the wound and bandage it and put him in a walking-cast. Gus nodded and felt a sting in his eyes as he wondered where Shawn was and what was happening with him. No one tending to him had any information. He sighed and winced as they fixed his foot.

**OoOoOoO**

Needles were piercing his arm. Not just needles, but little spikes of metal that had been heated to a red glow. He'd felt three of them, now, nearly simultaneous attacks. He knew they were actually stings from some creature in the case, but as the moments passed, it started feeling like superheated knives or railroad spikes had been jammed into his forearm. The heat was radiating out from them, as well, and his whole arm felt like he'd shoved it into an oven or a campfire. Lassiter gasped and drew in a breath, having expended all of his oxygen on his initial scream of pain. He stumbled up and away from the aquarium and saw the scurrying creatures finally. Scorpions. He hadn't seen scorpions since his Old Sonora days. He'd been stung once as a kid.

He grabbed at his bare right forearm and bent over, feeling the pain like a weight trying to flatten him to the ground. He remembered it hurting back then, but he didn't remember it hurting this bad. Suddenly another needle pierced him on his right shoulder. How could it be on his shoulder? He let out a strangled yell as he realized one of the bugs must've fallen inside his shirt collar. His shirt, which was under his vest. He spun around in a circle as he clawed frantically at the velcro straps. His right hand felt simultaneously heavy and dead as stone, but also still on fire as if flames should be coming off of it. He tried to use it, though, in his desperation to get the vest off. He felt another sting and let out another guttural yell, ripping at the vest and pulling with his left hand until it finally came off. He tore at his shirt, pulling the tails of it free from his pants. With the vest gone and his shirt loosened, he could actually feel the creature tumble down his back and out. He spun again and saw it flopping around on the floor and stomped down on it as hard as he could.

He stood for a moment, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath, and hugged his right arm to his side again. It was starting to feel like it was being shocked by hot wires, now. His mouth was tingling, too, and his tongue felt thick. He gasped and raised his head to see Sinclair leaning back against one of the dirty windows in the front wall of the room, rubbing absently at his jaw and watching him with a hungry amusement.

"You've cost me a lot of money tonight, but the entertainment's been well worth it," said Sinclair.

Lassiter tried to pull in a breath to retort, but his lungs didn't seem to respond. His heart started racing, feeling like it was jumping around in his chest. He tried to draw a breath again with a strained, wheezing noise.

"Having trouble there? Hope you're not allergic. Those bugs will put the hurt on you regardless. They're a special hybrid I've been working on for a while now...Deathstalker and Arizona Bark...best of the best," he said with a grin.

Lassiter closed his eyes as he tried to concentrate on drawing in oxygen. He took a few shallow breaths that seemed somewhat more successful and opened his eyes again, glaring at Sinclair with as much heat as he could muster, which he feared wasn't much.

"Screw...you..." he gasped.

The edges of his vision started to flash with alternating spots of bright and utter darkness. He felt himself sinking to the floor, fighting it as much as he could but losing. His whole right side was engulfed in a burning, sparking conflagration of pain, and his throat was closing off. He was on his knees now, gasping, pulling in pitiful amounts of oxygen and seemingly less each time. The flashing spots were growing in his vision. Sinclair's grin was growing more voracious. He didn't want to die with the sick bastard just watching. He hoped Henry had gotten away. Still no explosion. That was the last good thought he could hold onto, there'd been no explosion.

A sharp crack broke the night, and for a moment Lassiter feared that his last good thought was also ruined. Then another crack sounded. He raised his head against the weight of his dying and blinked, trying to focus. Sinclair was looking down at the two red spots blooming on his chest. He looked up again and met Lassiter's gaze for a moment. Then he smiled, revealing teeth red with blood. He turned and tried to take a step towards the door, toppling over onto his face. Lassiter blinked again, not certain that what he'd seen was real, but he saw the two cracked holes in the window where Sinclair had been standing. Henry had shot him through the window. Had to be. And that was an even better thought to hold onto, he realized, as he closed his eyes and sank into the airless flames.

**OoOoOoO**

Henry felt his heart crawl into his throat. The scream had come from Lassiter, he was sure of it. He jumped to his feet, almost tripping over the open case, and pulled his gun. The lights were on in the far room. There were two windows for that room, just like the middle room. He half-jogged across the dirt, eyes on the windows, and picked out a silhouetted form that seemed to be standing up against the furthest one. He couldn't tell who it was through the thick layer of grime on the glass, although logically he figured it wasn't Lassiter. Still, he wanted to be sure, so he slowed down and stalked towards the first window. He tripped over a rock and nearly fell into the building, catching himself just in time. He paused to draw in a breath and calm his newly frantic heart, then he took the final steps to the window and peered inside. Someone was spinning and writhing in the middle of the room and taking off his clothes. What the hell? Henry shook his head and squinted. He realized it was Lassiter, and that he'd taken off his vest. He had no idea why he'd be doing that, but he'd confirmed that Sinclair was the person standing against the window. Henry stepped away and then over until he was behind the silhouette. He felt a strange combination of determination and detachment, not relishing what he had to do, but knowing it had to be done. He raised his gun and fired twice through the glass.

When he reached the open door of the room, he saw Sinclair face-down in a spreading pool of blood. He grimaced and stepped between the body and one of the tables. Lassiter was also on the floor now. Henry rushed over. The detective was lying on his side and didn't seem to be breathing. Henry rolled him onto his back, noticing that his lips were turning blue and his face seemed swollen. Then he saw the red marks on his right forearm that was also swelling. Stings, he realized. He looked around and saw a squished scorpion on the floor and then the giant, broken aquarium with one or two more of the bugs scuttling around inside.

"Shit," he hissed. He realized that Lassiter was either having an allergic reaction to the scorpion stings, or that the creatures had been particularly poisonous. Or both. "Lassiter! Lassiter, keep breathing!"

Lassiter's eyes fluttered and his mouth opened wider, drawing in a labored wheeze, but he was obviously not getting enough oxygen.

"Dammit!" he growled. He wasn't sure how to help. What was he supposed to do to help the man breath? If there was an oxygen tank lying around somewhere...but he had no idea if there was. What was that thing people used if they had bad allergies? Some kind of pen thing that injected medicine. Maybe Sinclair had some of those lying around, like he'd had the stash of antivenom. Then Henry's spirits sank. The refrigerator that had held the antidotes was in the other room with all of the explosives. "Dammit."

Lassiter's wheezing was growing more shallow and had a high-pitched stridor. Henry stood up and put his hands on his head, turning around and looking desperately for anything that could help. This was the room with all of the bugs. Why were the medicines in the far room? Maybe he had a stash of them here too.

"Hang on, Lassiter," said Henry. "I know you don't want me giving you mouth-to-mouth any more than I want to do it, so keep breathing!"

Lassiter's eyelids fluttered again and he drew in a slightly stronger wheeze. Henry started to run around the room, examining all of the tables. At the back wall, there seemed to be a table with supplies and other things besides aquariums. He rushed to it and shuffled things around, not entirely certain what he was looking for. The allergy thing looked like a pen...they had that stuff...ep-something. Epinephrine, he remembered finally as his panicking brain made the connections. EpiPens. It would open Lassiter's airways again, hopefully. He pushed aside various jars and boxes and tools, not seeing anything like the tubes he thought the EpiPens looked like. Then he noticed that the table he was at had a drawer. He pulled it open and found medical supplies like bandages and gauze and antiseptic...and finally he saw it. He grabbed the tube and ran back to Lassiter's side. The detective's lips seemed more blue, and he was drenched in sweat. Henry fell to his knees at his side and fumbled with the EpiPen.

"Lassiter, I've got some medicine here. Stay with me, detective," he said as he opened the tube and pulled out the dispenser. He squinted at the little instruction illustrations on the side of it, trying to get his scrambled brain to understand them. He prepared the pen thing, doing what the little stick figure man was doing in the pictures, and then he drew in a deep breath and looked down at Lassiter for a moment, praying for the medicine to work. He raised the pen over Lassiter's thigh and then jammed it down firmly onto the big leg muscle, holding it there for a few seconds before pulling it out. He looked at it and saw the small needle sticking out of the end of the device, then he tossed it aside.

For a few more seconds, nothing happened, and Henry felt a sharp spike of despair in his chest. But then Lassiter drew in a long, ragged gasp, as if just coming up for air after being under water too long. His eyes opened, blinking rapidly and looking glazed.

"Hey! Thank god," breathed Henry. "Lassiter? Can you breath now? How do you feel?"

Lassiter just gasped for a few more moments, still looking more than half dead. Finally, though, he rasped, "Beat."

"Yeah," said Henry. He felt suddenly hot and miserable and decided he didn't need his vest anymore, shrugging out of it. Then he looked the detective over again as a thought occurred to him. He ran back to the drawer and scanned the contents, grabbing several items along with another EpiPen he found inside. He put the pen in his pocket as he returned to Lassiter. "I'm going to try and fix you up a bit, then we need to get out of here."

He lifted Lassiter's swollen arm and poured the antiseptic over it, swabbing gently at the stings with some gauze. Then he took more gauze and covered the bites before wrapping the whole arm from wrist to elbow with an ace bandage. He'd gotten the idea from Shawn's treatment and figured it might be the right thing to do for scorpion stings as well as snake bites. He finally started noticing the ache in his own arm as he was tending to Lassiter, realizing he'd forgotten it in his desperate frenzy to help the detective. It was reminding him with a vengeance now, though, as he tried to use his left hand to help with wrapping the ace bandage. When he was done, he considered the antiseptic bottle for a moment, then he gritted his teeth and tipped the bottle over his own arm, soaking the handkerchief and shirt around the wound. It burned like crazy and he gasped. Lassiter groaned and put his left hand on his face as if the lights in the room were bothering him. His breathing was still labored, and his skin felt clammy. He needed to get to a hospital. They both did, for several urgent reasons, he thought, as an image of Shawn flashed through his mind.

"Okay, can you stand up? I'll help, just try to get your feet under you," said Henry as he moved around and then pulled on Lassiter's left arm. "Come on, detective."

They had to take the simple act of standing up in stages, and Henry thought wryly about how complicated simplicity could be sometimes. Finally, Henry was able to get his right arm around Lassiter's torso while the detective's left arm was draped over his shoulders. Lassiter managed to push enough with his legs to leverage himself up, leaning heavily on Henry and breathing shallowly.

"This...fucking...hurts," he hissed as they made their way towards the door. His head was hanging low. He balked slightly when they started to maneuver around Sinclair's body on the floor. "He dead?"

"I hope so," said Henry, pulling Lassiter along. He didn't want to pause or waste any more time, and he didn't want to look at the hitman ever again. "You're doing good. Keep walking. We gotta go."

Lassiter's head craned to look back at the body for another few moments as if he was reluctant to walk away. Henry thought about just checking the killer's pulse, to reassure Lassiter, but he really didn't want to take the time. If the man wasn't dead, he soon would be, and Henry had two other people to save at the moment. Lassiter finally looked forward again and dropped his chin to his chest as he obviously struggled to make his own legs move, step by step. Outside, their progress was agonizingly slow, but they finally made it to the case that was still lying open on the ground.

"I gotta put you down a second," said Henry as he helped Lassiter sink to his knees. His hand moved up higher on Lassiter's back for a moment and the detective winced and yelped. "What is it?"

"Stings," said Lassiter through gritted teeth. "On my back."

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had more stings," said Henry. He hadn't brought the antiseptic out with them, so he wasn't sure there was anything he could do. "I'll be more careful."

Lassiter just sat back on his heels as he hugged his right arm to his side with his left and kept his head down. Henry quickly closed the case and realized he'd have to use the makeshift sling to carry it again. He sighed and slipped the wire over his head, then he went back to Lassiter and helped him stand once more.

"Okay, man, we're home free now," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic and failing miserably even to his own ears. "About 100 yards to the car."

They shuffled through the desert night, passing the burnt hulk of the police car and trying not to fall on the uneven ground in the darkness. When they reached the Crown Vic, Henry maneuvered Lassiter to the passenger side. He pulled open the front door and helped Lassiter lean down. The detective had to almost fall inside, and Henry helped him fold his long legs and stuff them in. Then he opened the rear door and shrugged the case off of his back and set it on the floor. He jogged around to the driver's side, feeling as if more than just the weight of the medicines and the detective had been lifted off of his back. They'd done it. They'd gotten the antidotes. They'd even stopped Sinclair for good. It had hurt, but they were alive, and they were leaving. He took one last deep breath and looked up at the stars before sinking gratefully into the driver's seat.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter felt like he'd gone to hell. He was writhing in a lake of fire, and he couldn't breath, but he couldn't die so that the suffering would end, either. He was drifting in and out of coherence, sometimes understanding that he was in his car with Henry driving. In those brief moments he almost felt relief that they'd gotten away. Mostly, though, he was trapped in his pain, drenched in sweat and shivering and drifting through a sea of disturbing images and memories. He saw Sinclair swinging the shovel, then he saw his father waving at him, but not in greeting. He was waving him away, like he used to do so much. Shoo fly, shoo. He saw Sinclair again, pointing at him with his finger, smiling with a bloody mouth, then he saw him pointing the gun. The muzzle flashed. Something flashed, and he felt a concussion. He gasped and opened his eyes, believing for a moment that he was coherent. He glanced at Henry who was looking into the rear view mirror with a horrified expression.

"What was that?" he asked fearfully.

Henry met his eyes and swallowed hard. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

His head fell back on the seat, and he was suddenly in a different place. Or was it the same? He was in a car. Was it this car? His father was driving. His head lolled to the side and he squinted at the driver. His father looked different. For a moment two realities came into conflict, then one faded. Lassiter was small again, and he was in the back seat on the passenger side, talking or playing or doing something that was making his father angry. His father was yelling. Then something happened on the road. He grabbed at the door handle just to hang on tighter as the car swerved unexpectedly. He accidentally opened the car door, and it swung wide while he was still holding on to it. He started to fall out. The car was moving so fast that the road was a blur underneath him, and he was going to fall on it. He wondered if it would be soft like water because it looked like flowing water and he was leaning further, falling, then jerking to a stop as a large, long-fingered hand wrapped around his arm and yanked him back from the brink. Tires screeched. The car slowed and stopped. His father leaned over the front seat, hand still grasping his arm, and looked at him. He wasn't angry anymore. He was scared. He said his name and said god's name and said "I almost lost you. Don't ever do that again." And Lassiter remembered that his father hadn't wanted to lose him, and that he'd saved him.

"Sorry," he said.

"What?" asked Henry.

"I'm sorry, dad," he said.

There was silence, and they didn't seem to be moving anymore, and Lassiter felt like it was time to sleep, finally. The fire was becoming familiar and the breathlessness didn't seem so terrible anymore and the images of Sinclair had melted away in the flames and his father, in that one moment of his life, at least, hadn't wanted to lose him. He felt his door open and then fingers were touching his neck and poking at his arm and the pains in his body flared but they seemed somehow distant and lights glared in his eyes so he closed them and voices pulled at him, but he decided to go to sleep anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Shawn felt himself waking up and wondered if he really wanted to. He'd gotten so sick and had felt so horrible that going back to the hospital hadn't even helped. When they'd arrived, they'd taken Gus away and had rushed him to a room where they'd poked and prodded and tested him until he'd wanted to scream. He had a vague idea that he actually had screamed at least once, but his brain had been short-circuiting by that point and he wasn't entirely sure what had been real. They'd tried various medicines and procedures and had babbled med-speak around him until he'd become convinced he'd been abducted by aliens. He'd grown more and more agitated and had tried asking about his father and Gus and even Lassie, but they'd brushed off his questions which had only wound him up more. They'd finally given him something to sleep, but he could tell the doctors and nurses were getting edgy, unsure of how to stop his bleeding. He'd wondered if he was even going to wake up. He opened his eyes and saw Juliet.

"Oh crap, I died," he said.

"What?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Did I die? Wait, you're not dead. Why are you here?"

"They let me come to visit you," she said with a faint smile. She was sitting in a wheelchair that had been parked at the side of his bed. She looked tired and there was a tension around her eyes that made him think she had a massive headache, but she was the best thing in the world he could've hoped to wake up to.

"That's so awesome," he said, and he couldn't even feel embarrassed at how lame it sounded. Someone on the other side of the bed cleared his throat and Shawn turned to find Gus lying on the small couch in the room with his foot in a cast and propped up on cushions. It was still dark outside, so he hadn't slept that long. "Gus! Even more awesome! Your shoe needs to go on a diet, though, man. That's ridiculous."

"I hear that," said Gus with a grimace but also with a twinkle in his eye as he met Shawn's look.

"Are you feeling any better?" asked Juliet. "They just gave you the antivenom a little while ago. I wasn't sure it would work so fast."

"They what?"

"Your father found some of the antidote. They just got back with it, and the doctor gave you some," said Juliet. She tried to smile again, but something held it at bay.

Shawn realized that she looked sad and he had a sudden flash of anxiety. "Is Dad okay? Where was he? Was he with Lassie?"

"They went to some guy's place out in the desert. I don't really understand everything they've been trying to tell me," said Juliet with a look of apology. She glanced over at Gus and Shawn turned to his friend.

"Your dad and Lassie found Sinclair's place. They brought the antidotes back," confirmed Gus. He also had a hesitant expression.

"They went alone?"

"Yeah," said Gus, giving Shawn an ironic look.

"But they're both okay?" prompted Shawn, feeling a twist in his stomach.

"Your dad was shot in the arm, but he's going to be fine," said Gus. "Lassie got beat up pretty bad and he was stung by some badass scorpions. They're still working on him. They just got in less than an hour ago, by MedEvac helicopter."

"Holy crap!" said Shawn as the news sank in and he realized what his father and Lassie had done. They'd gone off after Sinclair by themselves. He really was his father's son, he thought wryly as he considered his own rash antics. And his father had pulled Lassie along for the ride, something Shawn had done himself, numerous times. "Was Sinclair there?"

Gus nodded. "He's dead."

Shawn wondered for a moment how it had happened, but he was shocked enough for now. He could learn the details later. He looked at Juliet and saw how her eyes had grown bright. He reached across with his left hand and touched her cheek. "Lassie will be fine," he said, knowing that he had even less of a clue than his friends if that was true but hoping that he was right. "Of course he will."

She reached up and held his hand between her own for a moment and nodded. "I know. I'm just glad you're looking so much better already."

He let his head fall back and sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. The news about his father and everything else he'd missed was dragging him down as the small burst of energy Juliet had given him faded. "Back atcha," he mumbled. He wanted to see his dad, and he hoped Lassie was going to be okay. He wanted to talk about what had happened and get all of the details and tell his dad what he'd gone through. "Let me know when my dad comes." He closed his eyes, intending for it to only be for a moment, but the moment went on for a while.

**OoOoOoO**

Henry felt like he would fall asleep sitting up if he closed his eyes, so he made sure to keep them open. He couldn't sleep yet. The nurse was finishing up with his arm. She had cleaned the wound and bandaged it and was fitting him with a sling. She'd also given him some pain medicine that wasn't helping him feel any more awake. He had to see Shawn, though. They'd told him they were going to administer the antivenom right away, but he still needed to see his son. He had the sense that Shawn had gotten much worse while they were gone, not to mention the whole ordeal of being held hostage in Morton Eisener's house. He couldn't imagine why they'd gone there, although, he couldn't say he was totally surprised that they'd done something like that. And he couldn't really throw stones considering what he'd done himself.

When the nurse finished and set him free, he shrugged into his bloody Hawaiian shirt, refusing her offer of the ridiculous hospital gown. He walked through the emergency department, heading for the elevators. As he neared the main entrance, he noticed two police officers escorting an old man with a walker, and he jerked to a halt, staring. The old man saw him in the same instant. They glared at each other for a few moments. Henry tried to think of something to say other than "you stupid, hateful bastard," but those were the only words he could summon, and he figured the guy was getting the message from his expression anyway. He was getting the old creep's message of pure hatred in return. He narrowed his eyes, wondering how the man's poison had managed to become directed at him and Shawn, but he'd been a cop long enough to know that things like that couldn't be explained. People committed the most spiteful and destructive acts sometimes, and there was no figuring them out. The only thing to do was catch them and put them away so they couldn't do it again. He shifted his gaze to the two officers who were glancing between him and the perp, looking mildly confused. He nodded at them.

"Good work, guys," he said.

"Thanks, Mr. Spencer," said Officer Baker. "And the same to you, about that Sinclair guy. Glad to see you're okay."

Henry grimaced at the mention of the hitman. He was pushing aside his need to deal with the fact that he'd taken a man's life. His son's health came first. His own demons would have to wait. The old man started to grumble something, but Henry was done caring about him. He waved and turned back to the elevators as the officers prodded Morton towards the door. When he reached Shawn's floor and approached his room, he saw a nurse pushing Juliet O'Hara in a wheelchair.

"Detective!" he said with a smile. "You look great!"

"Thanks, Mr. Spencer," said Juliet with a small smile in return. "I'm sorry about your arm."

Henry knew she looked tired and haggard as well, but considering what she'd been through, she really did look good. "Oh, yeah, it's nothing really," he said shrugging automatically and then wincing at the pain of the movement.

"How's' Carlton?" asked Juliet, her concern suddenly bright in her eyes.

"He, uh, had some rough moments," said Henry, thinking about how the detective nearly stopped breathing, both at Sinclair's place and then once more in the ambulance that had met them on the road. It had driven them towards Santa Barbara until they'd been able to rendezvous with the MedEvac helicopter. The paramedics had stabilized him, though, and with some meds and intravenous fluids he'd been looking much better by the time they'd landed in Santa Barbara. He'd also seemed delirious at one point in the car, but Henry didn't think anyone needed to know about that. "I think he's going to be fine."

She sighed and nodded. The nurse gave him a look and he said a quick goodbye. She obviously needed to get back to her bed and rest. Henry started to reach for the door to Shawn's room when it opened to reveal Gus in a cast and holding crutches.

"Mr. Spencer!" said Gus with a smile. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Same here!" said Henry, giving Gus a quick hug. "What happened to your foot?"

Gus grimaced as he moved back to let Henry into the room. "I got shot," he said, looking abashed, like he was a kid admitting to breaking a window or something.

"Oh, well, I did too," said Henry as he clapped Gus on the shoulder. "We lived to tell about it, though, right?" He turned to the bed, but he saw that Shawn was sleeping. "How's he doing?"

"He's better," said Gus. His tone implied that he'd gotten pretty bad. "He said he wanted to see you."

"Well, he needs his rest," said Henry as he gazed at his son. "I'll sit with him. Are you going home?"

"Yeah, I was just going to go sleep a little and get some fresh clothes."

"I should do that too. I'll sit with him a while, though," said Henry with his eyes still glued to his son. He didn't see Gus's nod and knowing look.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Spencer. I'm glad you're okay."

"Same here, Gus," said Henry. He gave Gus a warm look and put his hand on his shoulder again. "And thank you."

Gus smiled and nodded, then he started to hobble out of the room on his crutches as Henry held the door. Henry was about to ask how he was getting home when he noticed Buzz coming up the hallway and giving Gus a wave. He closed the door and turned back to the bed to find Shawn looking at him.

"Dad."

"Shawn."

"Are you okay?" asked Shawn quietly.

"Yeah. Are you?"

"Yeah."

Henry wondered at how he could suddenly feel uncomfortable. He sighed as whatever energy had been keeping him up seemed to drain away all at once. He walked over and started to pull a chair up beside the bed.

"You look tired," said Shawn.

"I am."

"Are you okay?" Shawn asked again.

Henry paused as he'd just started to sit down, and he met Shawn's gaze. They looked at each other for a few moments. Henry could read all of the fear and worry and pain in his son's eyes, and something told him Shawn could see the same things in his. Finally, he just nodded and smiled crookedly. "Yeah. I'm okay now, kid," he said. "And so are you." Then he leaned over and gave his son a hug.

**OoOoOoO**

Lassiter was dreaming. For a while, he'd been blissfully unaware of anything, but now he was surfacing, and he apparently had to go through the disturbing images again to do it. Mostly, he kept seeing Sinclair. He relived the explosion in the lot, and then the fight in the desert. Not much of a fight, really. He pretty much just got beat to a pulp by the guy. He twisted in discomfort and felt pain flare in his arm and ribs. Manageable pain, at least. He thought he heard voices, but the images kept holding him down. Sinclair swinging the shovel. The scuttling creatures in the aquariums. Sinclair aiming his finger-gun at him in the lot. He'd tried to chase him, but no one else had seen him that day. He was like a ghost. He was a ghost who bled, though. He saw his body in the pool of blood on the floor. He was dead, right? He was surely dead. He saw him grinning again, hungry for his pain, watching as the scorpion poison started to take his breath away forever. But he'd seen him lying in the pool of blood. He was dead. The man was a ghost.

Lassiter opened his eyes and found Juliet looking at him with furrowed brows. All thoughts of Sinclair were wiped from his mind. He blinked. "Am I alive?" he asked, feeling like this couldn't be reality.

"Why does everyone keep saying that when they see me?" she asked as her forehead smoothed out and her eyes crinkled into a smile. "And yes, you are alive, partner."

He realized he was in the hospital, but he was still surprised to find her at his side. "What are you doing here?"

"They're letting me visit you guys sometimes," she said as she tilted her head to indicate something behind her.

He flicked his gaze over her shoulder and saw another bed in the room, but it was empty. He looked back at her, feeling confused, but also feeling a sudden bloom of elation. "Oh my god, it's so good to see you," he said as he smiled. "How are you?"

"I'm doing good, Carlton. It's good to see you too. You had us worried for a little while," she said.

He realized she was sitting in a wheelchair, and he also noticed how tired she looked. "Are you sure you should be here like this? Maybe you should go back to your room. You shouldn't push yourself too hard."

She laughed and shook her head. "You're one to talk," she admonished. "I'm pretty sure you're in worse shape than me right now. You know, I can actually remember telling you to be careful, and here you go and take on a professional hitman with just a civilian as a partner."

He grimaced. "Not the best plan, was it?" He looked around the room, taking note of a couch that seemed like it had been slept on. Who would've been sleeping in the room? Surely not Juliet. He also noticed that it was bright daylight outside. "How long have I been here?"

"Twelve hours, or so. They brought you in around 9PM last night, just about an hour after Shawn." Her look grew misty and she put her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Carlton, I'm just glad you're okay. And you ARE going to be okay. There was some antivenom for those scorpions in the case Henry found," she said. "Still. You cut that a little too close."

He didn't know what she meant about them bringing in Shawn, but he let it slide and just nodded. "I know," he said. Then he sighed. "So how are you really? Are you feeling better?"

"I am. Everything else has been pretty fuzzy until recently. And I can't remember anything about what happened at that empty lot. But the headaches are getting better, and I'm starting to fill in the gaps."

"Good," he said.

The door to the room opened and a nurse wheeled Shawn into the room with Gus in tow, hobbling along on crutches. Lassiter's brow furrowed. He realized Gus had a walking cast on his foot as he made his way across the room and settled onto the couch with a pained sigh. Lassiter's frown deepened as he noticed how familiar Gus seemed to be with the couch and the way the cushions were set up. He turned his head, and the suspicions that had been bubbling up were confirmed when he saw the nurse helping Shawn into the other bed.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" he gasped.

Juliet smirked and stifled an obvious giggle.

"Lassiestiltskin!" said Shawn. "You're back! I suppose this means I have to stop lobbing spitballs at you."

"No, seriously," said Lassiter with a desperate look at Juliet. "They're kidding, right?"

"Dude, we're the freaky-exotic-venom-victim wing of the hospital now," said Shawn. "Pretty sure you're stuck with me."

He groaned and flopped back into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. "Shoot me now," he groused.

"I wouldn't recommend it," said Gus grimly.

Lassiter turned his head and squinted at him. "Really?"

Gus nodded. "Right through the foot," he said.

"Ouch."

"You got that right."

"Five scorpion stings," said Lassiter.

"And two broken ribs, three cracked, and a bruised scapula," added Juliet.

"Really?" asked Lassiter. No wonder he felt like he'd been walked over by the Thanksgiving Day parade. She pursed her lips and nodded.

"Ouch," said Gus.

"No shit," said Lassiter.

"I puked blood!" said Shawn as he sat up and waved his arms. The right one was still wrapped up.

"Eww!" exclaimed Gus and Juliet and Lassiter simultaneously.

Henry opened the door and walked in with a box of take-out coffee and a big white bag both gripped precariously in his right hand. His left arm was in a sling. He looked tired, but he had on a fresh change of clothes.

"Father of mine!" said Shawn fondly. "You smuggled in goodies! I knew you'd pick up some of my better habits someday."

Henry's initial look of irritation melted into a smile. "How was your treatment?"

"Awesome. I was telling Gus we should market this baby and open up dialysis bars all over, you know, like those oxygen bars?"

Henry rolled his eyes and then looked at Lassiter.

"Hey! Good to see you awake, detective," he said warmly.

"Thanks, Henry," said Lassiter, feeling a little warm and fuzzy on the inside, himself, despite the fact that he was sharing a room with Shawn. "How's the arm?"

"Fine, just a scratch."

"Jeez, dad, you totally lose in the let's-compare-injuries game," said Shawn.

Henry grimaced. "I don't want to play any games."

Lassiter met his gaze and nodded as a look of understanding passed between them. For a while they all shared the coffee and donuts and compared stories, filling each other in on their separate adventures while helping Juliet put all of the pieces together. Lassiter asked Henry what had happened when they'd left Sinclair's place, because his memories were too disjointed to make sense. Henry described how they'd reached the main road when Sinclair's whole place had exploded behind them. Lassiter blinked at him in shock.

"Wait, how'd that happen?"

Henry grimaced. "I don't know. The one room was rigged, but I guess maybe he had the whole place on a timer too?" he said, then he shrugged, looking vaguely disturbed.

Lassiter felt exceedingly disturbed. "Did they find his body?"

Henry nodded as he gazed down at his coffee cup. "They found remains, burned so bad they were barely recognizable as human. But, yeah."

He went on to describe how some of the local authorities caught up to them at that point and transferred them to an ambulance. He'd called Chief Vick then and had explained the situation with the antivenoms. She'd summoned a MedEvac helicopter to pick them up, explaining to Henry what had happened with Shawn and what shape he was in. The ambulance drove towards Santa Barbara until the helicopter was able to meet it partway, then they'd flown the rest of the way to the city.

"Dude! Why didn't I get a ride in a helicopter?" groused Shawn.

"You were ten minutes from the hospital," said Gus.

"But it would've been, like, 3 minutes by helicopter!"

Lassiter listened to their silly arguing, not really hearing it as he felt suddenly exhausted. He thought he'd feel better about hearing confirmation of Sinclair's death, but he was just worn out and vaguely haunted.

"Carlton, are you tired?" asked Juliet quietly.

"No. Well, maybe," he said. Then he looked at her and noticed how haggard she seemed. "Are you? Maybe you should go back to your room."

"Yeah," she said with reluctance. "I will soon."

"Thanks for coming to see me," he said with a sincere look.

"Thank you, too. The nurses told me how you were sleeping in my room all of those nights."

He just gave her a crooked smile and shrugged. "That's what partners do."

**OoOoOoO**

Chief Vick knocked on the door and walked into the room after hearing a cacophony of voices inviting her inside. She stepped in and then stood for a moment, surveying the scene. It was quite a scene. Guster was on the couch with his boot-cast up on cushions. Lassiter and Shawn were in their beds, both of them with thickly wrapped right arms and both looking pale and very much the worse for wear. O'Hara was in a wheelchair between the two beds appearing overtired but reluctant to leave. And Henry was sitting in a chair with his left arm in a sling and a large cup of coffee in his right hand. She shook her head faintly and gave them all a wry smile.

"It's good to see you all," she said. "I'm sorry it has to be in the hospital."

She went on to deliver news that she knew they would all love to hear. Morton Eisener was going to stay in jail until his trial because the FBI had frozen all of his funds due to his mob connections. Charlotte Rey had been found and had agreed to return to Santa Barbara, and Maxwell Francis had come forward and offered to testify against his own father in the hopes of getting a deal on his charges. And to top it off, she told them all with a smile about how an old woman at the Shady Glen nursing home had figured out what Hammond was doing, swindling her fellow residents out of their money in the fake insurance scam. When he'd approached her, she'd been prepared and had recorded his pitch to her with her iPhone. She'd then emailed the video to the SBPD, the D.A.'s office and the local news outlets as well as posting it on YouTube. They'd arrested Hammond that morning.

**OoOoOoO**

Two weeks later, Shawn was sitting on his dad's porch watching the sunset. Henry came out of the house carrying two more beers. They'd had dinner with Gus who had hobbled off afterward to plan his route for the next day. He'd been working again, but he complained about the cast that was still going to be on his foot for another couple of weeks. He'd taken to griping about how Shawn was back to normal and he was still stuck with a broken foot. Shawn had been trying to appease his friend by continuing the daily churro habit and extending it until the cast was off. He was feeling guilty for the danger he'd put him in by going to Morton's house. In fact, he was still feeling guilty about everyone else getting hurt as well. Time was mending the wounds and easing the sting of it all, and it helped that all of the bad guys were either dead or in jail, but he felt more acutely than normal that he'd stepped over the line.

"Thanks, dad," said Shawn, and for a moment he meant for more than just the dinner and beer.

Henry seemed to catch the extra weight in Shawn's tone and nodded as he sat down. "You're welcome, Shawn," he said. They sat in silence for a moment as the sun sank below the horizon. "How's Juliet?"

"She's doing good," said Shawn. "She's back on desk duty now, and she should be fully reinstated next week."

"That's great. So, is Lassiter back to his old self?"

"Oh he never left," smirked Shawn, but then his brow furrowed. "Actually, I noticed a file on Sinclair he's trying to hide in one of his desk drawers. When I asked about it, he just got mad. I'm not sure what to make of that."

Henry's brow furrowed as well. "It was a rough scene we went through, with that lunatic. I mean, I got shot, and I got off easy. It takes time to process that kind of experience," said Henry with a fleeting, haunted look in his eyes. He cleared his throat and took a long drink.

"Yeah," said Shawn, hating to think about what his dad had been processing after killing a man, even an evil man.

"Just give Lassiter some time. He'll get over it."

Shawn nodded.

"How about you? Are you going to get over it?" asked Henry as he stared at the horizon.

"What?" asked Shawn with surprise. "Get over what?"

"Everything," said Henry, giving him a piercing look.

Shawn looked at him for a moment, then he looked back at the orange sky. He remembered that night in the Psych office talking to Gus about how much he wanted to solve two cases in a row without his father's help. Everything he'd done after that had almost ended in disaster. Then he thought about what he'd said to Morton. Was he holding his dad to a standard to which he didn't even hold himself? He'd gone to his father so many times before for his help, but then he resented his father for the fact that he needed him sometimes. How crazy was that? That was the poisonous kind of crazy that ended up with relationships like the one Morton had with his son Maxwell. Expect the impossible, resent the reality. He did resent the training his father had subjected him to as a kid, but he honestly wouldn't be able to do the things he based his livelihood on now without it. He still didn't think it was the right way to raise a kid, but it was done. It was in the past. And he knew in his core that his father hadn't done it out of malice. He'd only wanted to help his son learn what he thought was important. Shawn realized that he'd finally gotten to the point where he could forgive his dad, but he also knew he needed to forgive himself, as well, for rebelling against Henry's methods. He was finally starting to feel that it wasn't a matter of who's right and who's wrong. He took a long drink, sensing his dad waiting for a response.

So, they were two different people who valued things differently. That didn't mean they couldn't still love each other and help each other in the ways they did things best. His father helped him organize his thoughts on cases, and sometimes got him past emotional ideas or other things that would hang him up. Shawn was pretty sure he'd helped his father loosen up over the past few years. Hell, he'd bucked the chief's orders and had convinced Lassie, of all people, to do the same to mount a rescue effort in the middle of the desert, Lone Ranger and Tonto-style. That certainly wasn't the Henry Spencer of his SBPD days. Shawn smirked at the image of his dad in a cowboy suit complete with fringe and sitting on a big white horse. What they had now worked, no matter how long it had taken them both to figure that out. Things would get back to normal, the new normal that was a little weird sometimes, but fun. Things were good. He sighed and sank deeper into his chair, feeling like he was letting something go that needed let go.

"Yeah, dad. I'll get over it," he said with a crooked grin.

Henry eyed him for a moment, then he just nodded and smiled. "I knew you would."

**THE END**


End file.
